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LONDON GARLAN 

SELECTED FROM FIVE Cl 
TURIES OF ENGLISH VER 
BY W. E. HENLEY WITH F 
TURES BY MEMBERS OF Ti 

SOCIETY OF ILLUSTRATORS 



MACMILLAN AND Cl 1Y 

LONL. 1 . 



LONDON GARLAND 

SELECTED FROM FIVE CEN 
TURIES OF ENGLISH VERSE 
BY W. E. HENLEY WITH PIC 
TURES BY MEMBERS OF THE 

SOCIETY OF ILLUSTRATORS 



MACMILLAN AND COMPANY 

LONDON AND NEW YORK 
1895 




PN 

6110 
P1L5 




NOTE 

HIS is not a full, much less an exhaustive, collection of Lond 
verses. It is only a choice for illustration : a choice, too, 1 
representative as it appears than it was in the beginning, < 
it was realised what numbers would lend themselves 
pictorial treatment, and what numbers would not. 

Even so, however, 'tis hoped that A London Garland, being seleci 
from some five centuries of verse, will be found to example ma 
differences in method and the point of view, which have ruled a 
passed in English Poetry in the long years dividing the London 
Chaucer's Prentice and Dunbar's panegyric and the London of Viccad. 
and In The Rain. 

The pictorial commentary is no concern of mine, but is wholly tl 
of the Society of Illustrators, at whose request the little which I had to 

was done. 

W. E. H. 



27 th November 1895. 



The Members of the Society of Illustrators wish to express their 
thanks to various Authors and Publishers for permission to include 
:opyright pieces in this volume. 



Ta6(e 



(onfents 





ONTENTS 



HALF-TITLE. Designed by ALFRED PARSONS 

FRONTISPIECE. Drawn by F. A. ABBEY .... 

PREFACE ....... 

CONTENTS. Etching by R. W. MACBETH, A.R.A. . 

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ..... 

LIST OF ARTISTS ..... 

LIST OF AUTHORS .... 

A STORM FIEND. By FREDERICK SANDYS . 

A LONDON PRENTICE. GEOFFREY CHAUCER 
Illustrated by Alice B. Woodward. 

IN PRAISE OF LONDON. WILLIAM DUNBAR 
WINDSOR CASTLE. HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 

PROTHALAMION, OR, A SPOUSAL VERSE. EDMUND SPENSER 
Illustrated by Walter Crane, A.R.W.S. 

WINDSOR FOREST. MICHAEL DRAYTON . 

Illustrated by Enoch Ward. 

WINDSOR TO LONDON THAMES. MICHAEL DRAYTON . 

Illustrated by W. L. Wyllie, Frank L. Emanuel, and Alfred Parsons. 

A WINTER SONG. THOMAS NASHE 

SONG : TO CELIA. BEN JONSON . 
Illustrated by H. Johnson. 

IN LONDON WAY. JOSEPH HALL ..... 
Illustrated by W. L. Wyllie, A.R.A. 

THE MAY-LORD. JOHN FLETCHER . 



A LONDON GARLAND 



PAGE 



ES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER. FRANCIS BEAUMONT . 26 

Illustrated by E. H. New and Joseph Pennell. 

LRES TO THAMASIS. ROBERT HERRICK . .28 

Illustrated by Douglas Macpherson. 

LONG VACATION IN LONDON. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT ... 30 

ALLAD UPON A WEDDING. SIR JOHN SUCKLING . . . . -35 

Illustrated by W. S. Stacey. 

EN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY. JOHN MILTON . . 40 

Illustrated by A. J. Finberg and E. G. Hill. 

ONDON CAVALIER. ALEXANDER BROME ...... 41 

Illustrated by Claude A. Shepperson. 

'OWN GALLANT. JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER ..... 45 
Illustrated by Alfred Pearse, F. W. Law son, and H. R. Millar. 

ITY SHOWER. JONATHAN SWIFT . . . . . . 47 

Illustrated by Joseph Pennell. 

''OMAN OF FASHION. THOMAS TICKELL ...... 50 

Illustrated by Chris Hammond and F. H. Townsend. 

rtPTON COURT. ALEXANDER POPE ....... 52 

Illustrated by J. Fulleylove. 

HTWALKING. JOHN GAY ........ 54 

Illustrated by J. Finnemore and J. R. Way. 

LY IN OUR ALLEY. HENRY CAREY ....... 59 

Illustrated by E. J. Sullivan. 

JAMES'S CHAPEL. ANONYMOUS ....... 62 

Illustrated by J. Bernard Partridge. 

>M RICHMOND HILL (1727). JAMES THOMSON 64 

Illustrated by S. Reid. 

fDON JAUNTS. HENRY FIELDING . . , . . 69 

Illustrated by G. Grenville Man t on. 

sfDON JARS. HENRY FIELDING . 71 

Illustrated by Cecil Aldin. 

E RED LION, HENLEY. WILLIAM SHENSTONE . . . . . -73 

Illustrated by J. S. Crompton. 

E ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE (1742). THOMAS GRAY . 74 
Illustrated by A. R. Quinton. 



CONTENTS 

STRAWBERRY-HILL, A BALLAD. WILLIAM PULTENEY, EARL OF BATH . 

A CHAMBER IN GRUB STREET. OLIVER GOLDSMITH . 
Illustrated by W. W. Russell. 

THE CONTRAST. CAPTAIN CHARLES MORRIS 

WAPPING OLD STAIRS. CHARLES DIBDIN 
Illustrated by W. Thomas Smith. 

HOLY THURSDAY. WILLIAM BLAKE 
Illustrated by F. H. Crawford. 

LONDON FROM SHOOTER'S HILL. GEORGE GORDON BYRON, LORD BYRON 

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
Illustrated by Edgar Wilson. 

THE MERMAID TAVERN. JOHN KEATS . 
Illustrated by Robert Burns. 

MOLESEY HURST. JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Illustrated by Frank Dad, Jack B. Teats, and A. S. Hartrick. 

THE BOY AT THE NORE. THOMAS HOOD 
Illustrated by R. Vicat Cole. 

A BALLAD OF GUY FAWKES. THOMAS HUDSON 

Illustrated by W. Rainey and A. R. Rackham. 

GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 
Illustrated by Ronald Gray and H. Tanks. 

"O that 'twere possible 

After long grief and pain." ALFRED TENNYSON 
Illustrated by Everard Hopkins and Fred. T. Jane. 

THE IDLER. ANONYMOUS . . 

Illustrated by A. S. Boyd. 

SUMMER IN HYDE PARK. MATTHEW ARNOLD .... 
A COVENT GARDEN PASTORAL. HENRY S. LEIGH 

THE BELLS OF ST. MARTIN'S. HENRY S. LEIGH 
Illustrated by Archie Macgregor. 

THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 
Illustrated by Hal Hurst. 

ST. JAMES'S STREET. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 
Illustrated by J. W. T. Manuel. 

PICCADILLY. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON ..... 

Illustrated by A. H. Callings, Oscar Eckhardt, and Sir J. D. Linton, P.R.I. 



A LONDON GARLAND 



)AY AT HAMPSTEAD. JAMES THOMSON 

Illustrated by L. Raven Hill and Phil May. 

NDON PLANE-TREE. AMY LEVY . 
Illustrated by J. Barnard Davis. 

.EAM. WILLIAM MORRIS 

Illustrated by W. Bayes. 

DON SNOW. ROBERT BRIDGES . 
IAMES SUBURB. ROBERT BRIDGES 

LUTUMN IDYLL. AUSTIN DOBSON 

Illustrated by G. D. Hammond and Fred Pegram. 

MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL. AUSTIN DOBSON 
Illustrated by G. H. Edwards. 

[ MY. RUDYARD KIPLING .... 
Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I., and T. S. C. Crowther. 

ER THE SPEAKER'S GALLERY. WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT . 

LONDON SEASON. WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 

, 
DWOOD. WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 

VY AT HAMPTON COURT. WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 
Illustrated by W. Hatherell, R.I. 

LN OLD CITY CHURCH. J. ASHBY-STERRY . 

Illustrated by C. E. Mallows and R. Strudwick. 

PHE RAIN. ROSAMOND MARRIOTT- WATSON . 

Illustrated by Chadwell Smith. 

[DDLE OF THE THAMES. WILLIAM WATSON 
Illustrated by A. Hugh Fisher. 

FOUNTAIN COURT. ARTHUR SYMONS . 
Illustrated by W. E. Home. 

OAFER. JOHN DAVIDSON . . . 

Illustrated by J. F. Sullivan and W. Luker. 

,LADE OF CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE. ANDREW LANG 
Illustrated by W. L. Wyllie, A.R.A. 

.LADE OF SUMMER. ANDREW LANG .... 
Illustrated by Enoch Ward. 

A DISTANCE. JUSTIN HUNTLY M'CARTHY 

Illustrated by Paul Renouard, W. D. Almond, and Aubrey Beardsley. 



H7 
149 

150 
152 

154 

161 
164 

167 
168 
169 
171 

173 



178 
180 
181 
184 

187 
189 



CONTENTS 

THE LITTLE DANCERS. W. L. BINYON . 

Illustrated by A, S. Har trick. 

NOCTURN. W. E. HENLEY . 

Illustrated by J. McNeil Whistler and Arthur Tomson. 

IN WESTMINSTER. W. E. HENLEY 

Illustrated by Joseph Fennel/. 

FOG. W. E. HENLEY . 

Illustrated by Joseph Pennell. 




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



Design for Wrapper for A London Garland. Drawn by G. C. HAITE. 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 
Initial Letters. Drawn by ALFRED PARSONS. 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 
End Papers. Designed by W. GLEESON WHITE. 

Lithographed by Maclagan and Gumming. 

Half-Title and Cover. Designed by ALFRED PARSONS, R.I. 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 
Frontispiece. By EDWIN A. ABBEY .... 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 
Contents. Etching by R. W. MACBETH, A.R.A. 

Printed by F. Goulding. 

List of Illustrations. Heading designed by R. A. BELL . 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 
List of Artists. Heading designed by R. A. BELL 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 
A Storm Fiend From an unpublished drawing by FREDERICK SANDYS 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 
Ye Olde Blue Boar. Drawn by ALICE B. WOODWARD . 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 



A LONDON GARLAND 



PAGE 



tc Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song." Drawn by WALTER CRANE, A.R.W.S. . 10 
Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 

. . . wreaths this king of rivers crowns." Drawn by ENOCH WARD . . .14 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

on by London leads." Drawn by W. L. WYLLIE, A.R.A. . . . .16 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

on Court. Drawn by FRANK L. EMANUEL . . . . . . 17 

Reproduced by Andre and Sleigh. 

rowded wharfs, and people-pest'red shores." Drawn by ALFRED PARSONS . . 18 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

ne, sweet." Drawn by H. JOHNSON . . . . . . .21 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

>ndon way." Etching by W. L. WYLLIE, A.R.A. . . . . To face p. 22 

" How many royal bones 

Sleep within this heap of stones." Drawn by E. H. NEW , 25 
Reproduced by A. and C. Dawson. 

"An acre sown indeed 

With the richest, royall'st seed." Drawn by JOSEPH PENNELL . 27 
Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 

ge with boughes and rushes beautifi'd." Drawn by DOUGLAS MACPHERSON . . 29 

Reproduced by A. and C. Dawson. 

Dper Thames. Etching by Sir FRANCIS SEYMOUR HADEN, P.R.P.E. . . To face />. 34 

Printed by F. Goulding. 

" Her feet beneath her petticoat, 

Like little mice, stole in and out." Drawn by W. S. STACEY . 37 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company, 
ilton. Drawn by A. J. FINBERG . . . . . .40 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 
v garden house in Aldersgate Street. Drawn by E. G. HILL . . . .40 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

" Come your ways, 
Bonny boys 

Of the town." Drawn by CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON . 42 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

ently run through the lungs." Drawn by ALFRED PEARSE . . . -44 

Reproduced by Walker and Boutall. 
here is an End of Bully ! " Drawn by F. W. LAWSON . . . . -45 

Reproduced by A. T. Clarke and Company. 

"A brisk Blade of the Town 

That takes Delight in roaring." Drawn by H. R. MILLAR . 46 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS x 

p 

"A City Shower." Drawn by JOSEPH PENNELL .... . 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 
"In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down, 

You know was the fashion before you left town." Drawn by CHRIS HAMMOND . 
Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 

" I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark." Drawn by F. H. TOWNSEND 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

Hampton Court. Drawn by J. FULLEYLOVE, R.l. 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

Hampton Court. Drawn by J. FULLEYLOVE, R.I. 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

The Long Walk, Hampton Court. Drawn by J. FULLEYLOVE, R.I. .... 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" Seiz'd by rough hands, he's dragged amid the rout, 

And stretch'd beneath the pump's incessant spout." Drawn by J. FINNEMORE 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 
"OldCloV Drawn and Lithographed by J. R. WAY . ... To face p, 

" To walk abroad with Sally." Drawn by E. J. SULLIVAN ..... 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

St. James's Chapel. Drawn by J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE ..... 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

" Or ascend, 

While radiant Summer opens all its pride, 
Thy hill, delightful Shene." Drawn by S. REID . 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" My dear, the coach is at the door ! " Drawn by G. GRENVILLE MANTON 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" And this dog smarts for what that dog hath done." Drawn by CECIL ALDIN 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

William Shenstone writing his poem on the window-pane at the Red Lion, Henley. Drawn 
by J. S. CROMPTON ......... 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"A distant prospect of Eton." Drawn by A. R. QUINTON ..... 

" Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 

That crown the watery glade." 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 
A Chamber in Grub Street. Drawn by W. W. RUSSELL 
Reproduced by A. T. Clarke and Company. 
" Molly has never been false, she declares, 
Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs." Drawn by W. THOMAS SMITH 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song." Drawn by F. H. CRAWFORD 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

PAGE 

linster Bridge. Drawn by EDGAR WILSON . . . . . .91 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

lermaid Tavern. Drawn by R. BURNS ... 92 

Reproduced by Andre and Sleigh. 

Fight." Drawn by FRANK DAD, R.I. . . 94 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" To watch him strip his well-trained form, 

White, glowing, muscular, and warm." Drawn by JACK B. YEATS . 96 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

ck-out. Drawn by A. S. HARTRICK ....... 97 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

oy at the Nore. Drawn by R. VICAT COLE ...... 99 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

j a doleful tragedy." Drawn by W. RAINEY, R.I. . . . . .102 

Reproduced by Walker and Boutall. 

Had of Guy Fawkes." Drawn by A. RACKHAM . . . . . .104 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 

Fennel's macaw." Drawn by RONALD GRAY . . . . . .106 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 

" The splendour 

That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar ; 
Where I purchased my heart was so tender 
A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, 

A bottle of perfume, a girdle." Drawn by H. TONKS . .109 

Reproduced by A. T. Clarke and Company. 

" O that 'twere possible . . . 

To find the arms of my true love." Drawn by EVERARD HOPKINS 112 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

'* It leads me forth at evening, . . , 
When all my spirit reels 
At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels." Drawn by FRED. T. JANE . 115 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

ting on a tree root." Drawn by A. S. BOYD . . . . . .119 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 
out Saint Martin's merry chimes." Drawn by ARCHIE MACGREGOR . . .126 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

thus this shadow ... has been shed the same . . . from lamps which came for prayer." 

rawn by HAL HURST . . . . . . . . .129 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

imes's Street." "For Fashion still is seen there." Drawn by J. W. T. MANUEL . .137 

Reproduced by A. and C. DaWson. 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

" She stands in despair 

On the kerb." Drawn by A. H. COLLINGS 
Reproduced by Andre and Sleigh. 

" Quick, stranger, advance 

To her aid." Drawn by OSCAR ECKHARDT 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

Waiting for a Bus. Drawn by Sir J. D. LINTON 

Reproduced by Walker and Boutall. 

" Sunday at Hampstead." Drawn by L. RAVEN HILL .... 
Reproduced by A. T. Clarke and Company. 

Tailpiece. Drawn by PHIL MAY ..... 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"A London Plane-Tree." Drawn by J. BARNARD DAVIS 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"A Dream." Drawn by W. BAYES .... 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

" Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees." Drawn by G. D. HAMMOND 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

"An Autumn Idyll." Drawn by FRED PEGRAM 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"I wot that I shall die of Love." Drawn by G. H. EDWARDS .... 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

" We aren't no thin red 'eroes." Drawn by W. B. WOLLEN, R.I. 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' * Tommy, 'ow's yer soul ? ' ' Drawn by T. S. 
C. CROWTHER ........ 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"A Day at Hampton Court." Drawn by W. HATHERELL, R.I. 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

Church of All Hallowes, Bread Street (now pulled down). Drawn by C. E. MALLOWS 
Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 

St. Helen's Church, Bishopsgate (interior). Drawn by R. STRUDWICK . 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

" In the Rain." Drawn by CHADWELL SMITH ....... 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 
" Two stately swans ! . . . Whence came they ? " Drawn by A. HUGH FISHER 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" Fountain Court." Drawn by W. E. HOME ....... 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"A Loafer." Drawn by J. F. SULLIVAN ..... 

Reproduced by A. T. Clarke and Company. 



A LONDON GARLAND 



PAGE 



ing about the streets all day." Drawn by W. LUKER . 183 

Reproduced by Andre and Sleigh. 

from a house in Buckingham Street where once lived Charles Locke, and introduced into 
David Copperfeld. Drawn by W. L. WYLLIE, A.R.A. . . . . .184 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

from a house in Buckingham Street where once lived Charles Locke, and introduced into 
David Copperfeld (evening). Drawn by W. L. WYLLIE . . . . .185 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

en fans for a penny are sold in the Strand ! " Drawn by ENOCH WARD . . .186 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" Where from some corner I can stare 

Across that line of yellow fire." Drawn by PAUL RENOUARD . 188 
Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

" And I can see you, when I please, 

Behind the level lamps at night." Drawn by W. D. ALMOND . 190 
Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 

i Distance." Drawn by AUBREY BEARDSLEY . . . . . .191 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

: Little Dancers." Drawn by A. S. HARTRICK . . . . . .193 

Reproduced by Angerer and Goschl. 

"The River, jaded and forlorn, 

Welters and wanders wearily." Drawn by J. M'NfiiL WHISTLER . 194 
Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

:turn." Drawn by ARTHUR TOMSON . . . . . . .196 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

>tminster." Drawn by JOSEPH PENNELL . . . . . . .198 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

." Drawn by JOSEPH PENNELL ........ 200 

Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company. 

: End." Drawn by R. A. BELL ........ 203 

Reproduced by Waterlow and Sons, Limited. 



U-TT OF 



ARJIfTJZ 



r 




E. A. Abbey, R.W.S. 
Cecil Aldin 

W. D. Almond 

W. Bayes 

Aubrey Beardsley 

R. A. Bell 

A. S. Boyd 

R. Burns 

R. Vicat Cole 

A. H. Collings 

Walter Crane, A.R.W.S. 

F. H. Crawford 
J. S. Crompton 
T. S. C. Crowther 
Frank Dad, R.I. 
J. Barnard Davis 
Oscar Eckhardt 

G. H. Edwards 
Frank L. Emanuel 
A. J. Finberg 

J. Finnemore 

A. Hugh Fisher 

J. Fulleylove, R.I. 

Ronald Gray 

Sir Francis Seymour Haden, P.R.P.E. 

G. C. Haite 

Chris Hammond 



G. D. Hammond 
A. S. Hartrick 
W. Hatherell, R.I. 

E. G. Hill 

L. Raven Hill 
W. E. Home 
Everard Hopkins 
Hal Hurst 
Fred T. Jane 
H. Johnson 

F. W. Lawson 

Sir J. D. Linton, P.R.I. 

W. Luker 

Robert W. Macbeth, A.R.A., R.V 

Archie Macgregor 

D. Macpherson 
C. E. Mallows 

G. Grenville Manton 
J. W. T. Manuel 
Phil May 

H. R. Millar 

E. H. New 
Alfred Parsons, R.I. 
J. Bernard Partridge 
A. Pearse 

Fred Pegram 
Joseph Pennell 



A LONDON GARLAND 



R. Quinton 
R. Rackham 

Rainey, R.I. 
Eleid 
il Renouard 

W. Russell 
iderick Sandys 
tide A. Shepperson 
adwell Smith 

Thomas Smith 

S. Stacey 
Strudwick 
J. Sullivan 



J. F. Sullivan 

Arthur Tomson 

H. Tonks 

F. H. Townsend 

Enoch Ward 

J. R. Way 

J. M'Neil Whistler 

W. Gleeson White 

Edgar Wilson 

W. B. Wollen, R.I. 

Alice B. Woodward 

W. L. Wyllie, A.R.A. 

Jack B. Yeats 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



tthew Arnold 

lliam Pulteney, Earl of Bath 
ncis Beaumont 
L. Binyon 
lliam Blake 
Ifrid Sea wen Blunt 
bert Bridges 
ixander Brome 

Drge Gordon Byron, Lord Byron 
nry Carey 
:>ffrey Chaucer 
William Davenant 
n Davidson 
arles Dibdin 
stin Dobson 
chael Dray ton 
lliam Dunbar 
nry Fielding 
in Fletcher 
in Gay 

ver Goldsmith 
;omas Gray 
eph Hall 
, E. Henley 
bert Herrick 
lomas Hood 
lomas Hudson 
n Jonson 
in Keats 



Rudyard Kipling 

Andrew Lang 

Henry S. Leigh 

Amy Levy 

Frederick Locker-Lampson 

Justin Huntly M'Carthy 

Rosamond Marriott- Watson 

John Milton 

Captain Charles Morris 

William Morris 

Thomas Nashe 

Alexander Pope 

Winthrop Mackworth Praed 

John Hamilton Reynolds 

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 

William Shenstone 

Edmund Spenser 

J. Ashby-Sterry 

Sir John Suckling 

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey 

Jonathan Swift 

Arthur Symons 

Alfred Tennyson 

James Thomson 

Thomas Tickell 

William Watson 

William Wordsworth 




A LONDON PRENTICE 



PRENTIS whylom dwelled in our citee, 
And of a craft of vitaillers was he ; 
Gaillard he was as goldfinch in the shawe, 
Broun as a berie, a propre short felawe, 
With lokke's blake, y-kempt ful fetisly. 

Dauncen he coude so wel and iolily, 

That he was cleped Perkin Revelour. 

He was as ful of love and paramour 

As is the hyve ful of hony swete ; 

Wel was the wenche with him mighte mete. 

At every brydale wolde he singe and hoppe, 

He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe. 
For whan ther any ryding was in Chepe, 

Out of the shoppe thider wolde he lepe. 

Til that he hadde al the sighte y-seyn, 

And daunced wel, he wolde nat come ageyn. 

And gadered him a meinee of his sort 

To hoppe and singe, and maken swich disport. 

And ther they setten Steven for to mete 

To pleyen at the dys in swich a strete. 

For in the toune nas ther no prentys, 

That fairer coude caste a paire of dys 

Than Perkin coude, and ther-to he was free 

Of his dispense, in place of privetee. 

That fond his maister wel in his chaffare ; 

For often tyme he fond his box ful bare. 

For sikerly a prentis revelour, 

That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour, 

His maister shal it in his shoppe abye, 

Al have he no part of the minstralcye ; 

For thefte and riot, they ben convertible, 

Al conne he pleye on giterne or ribible. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Revel and trouthe, as in a low degree, 
They ben ful wrothe al day, as men may see. 

This ioly prentis with his maister bood, 
Til he were ny out of his prentishood, 
Al were he snibbed bothe erly and late, 
And somtyme lad with revel to Newgate ; 
But atte laste his maister him bithoghte, 
Up-on a day, whan he his paper soghte, 
Of a proverbe that seith this same word, 
" Wei bet is roten appel out of hord 
Than that it rotie al the remenaunt." 
So fareth it by a riotous servaunt ; 
It is wel lasse harm to lete him pace, 
Than he shende alle the servaunts in the place. 
Therfore his maister yaf him acquitance, 
And bad him go with sorwe and with meschance ; 
And thus this ioly prentis hadde his leve. 
Now lat him riote al the night or leve. 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

(1340-1400). 




IN PRAISE OF LONDON 



|ONDON, thou art of townes A per se. 

Soveraign of cities, semeliest in sight, 
Of high renoun, riches, and royaltie ; 

Of lord/s, barons, and many goodly knyght ; 
Of most delectable lusty ladies bright ; 
Of famous prelat/s, in habit/s clericall ; 

Of merchauntis full of substaunce and myght : 
London, thou art the Flour of Cities all. 

Gladdith anon thou lusty Troynovaunt, 

Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy, 
In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant, 

Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure, and of joy, 

A richer restith under no Christen roy ; 
For manly power, with craftis naturall, 

Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy : 
London, thou art the Flour of Cities all. 

Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie, 

Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour , 
Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie ; 

Of royall cities rose and geraflour ; 

Empresse of townes, exalt in honour, 
In beawtie berying the crone imperiall ; 

Swete paradise, precelling in pleasure : 
London, thou art the Flour of Cities all. 

Aboue all ryuers thy Ryuer hath renowne, 
Whose beryall stremys, pleasant and preclare, 

Under thy lusty wallys renneth down, 

Where many a swanne doth swymme with wingi's fare ; 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Where many a barge doth saile, and row with are, 
Where many a ship doth rest with toppe-royall. 

O ! towne of townes, patrone and but compare : 
London, thou art the Flour of Cities all. 

Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white 

Been merchaunti's full royall to behold ; 
Upon thy stretis goeth many a semely knyght 

(All clad) in velvet gownes and cheynes of gold. 

By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of old 
May be the Hous of Mars victoryall, 

Whos artillary with tonge may not be told : 
London, thou art the Flour of Cities all. 

Strong be thy wallys that about thee stand/s ; 

Wise be the people that within thee dwell/s ; 
Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strand/s ; 

Blith be thy churches, wele sownyng thy bell/s ; 

Riche be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excell/s ; 
Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small ; 

Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kell/s : 
London, thou art the Flour of Cities all. 

Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce, 

With swerd of justice the ruleth prudently. 
No Lord of Paris, Venyce, or Floraunce 

In dygnitie or honoure goeth to hym nye. 

He is exampler, loode-ster, and guye, 
Principall patrone and roose orygynalle, 

Above all Maires as maister moost worthy : 
London, thou art the Flour of Cities all. 

WILLIAM DUNBAR 

(1465-1530). 




WINDSOR CASTLE 

(Imprisoned in Windsor, the Lover recounteth his Pleasure there passed) 

[O cruel prison how could betide, alas ! 

As proud Windsor ? Where I in lust and joy, 
With a king's son, my childish years did pass, 
In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy ; 
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour. 

The large green courts, where we were wont to rove, 

With eyes upcast unto the maidens' tower, 

And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. 

The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue, 

The dances short, long tales of great delight ; 

With words and looks that tigers could but rue, 

When each of us did plead the other's right. 

The palm play, where desported for the game, 

With dazed eyes oft we, by gleams of love, 

Have missed the ball, and got sight of our dame, 

To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. 

The gravelled ground, with sleeves tied on the helm, 

On foaming horse with swords and friendly hearts ; 

With cheer as though one should another whelm, 

Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts. 

With silver drops the meads yet spread for ruth ; 

In active games of nimbleness and strength, 

Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth, 

Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length. 

The secret groves, which oft we made resound 

Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; 

Recording oft what grace each one had found, 

What hope of speed, what dread of long delays. 

The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; 

With reins availed, and swift ybreathed horse, 

6 



A LONDON GARLAND 

With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, 
Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. 
The void walls eke that harboured us each night : 
Wherewith, alas ! revive within my breast 
The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight ; 
The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest ; 
The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust ; 
The wanton talk, the divers change of play ; 
The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just, 
Wherewith we passed the winter night away. 
And with this thought the blood forsakes the face ; 
The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue : 
The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas ! 
Up-supped have, thus I my plaint renew : 
" O place of bliss ! renewer of my woes ! 
Give me account, where is my noble fere ? 
Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose ; 
To other lief; but unto me most dear." 
Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue, 
Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. 
Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, 
In prison pine, with bondage and restraint ; 
And with remembrance of the greater grief, 
To banish the less, I find my chief relief. 

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 

(1517-1546). 




PROTHALAMION 

OR, A SPOUSALL VERSE 

>ur of the double mariage of the two honorable and vertuous ladies, the Ladie Elizabeth, 
I the. Ladie Katherine Somerset, daughters to the Right Honourable the Earle of 
^rcester, and espoused to the two worthie gentlemen M. Henry Gilford, and M. William 
:er, Esquyers. 

ALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre 
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play 
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
Hot Titan's beames, which then did glyster fayre ; 
When I, (whom sullein care, 

Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay 

In Prince's Court, and expectation vayne 

Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, 

Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,) 

Walkt forth to ease my payne 

Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes ; 

Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes, 

Was paynted all with variable flowers, 

And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes 

Fit to decke maydens' bowres, 

And crowne their Paramours 

Against the Brydale day, which is not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. 

There, in a Meadow, by the River's side, 
A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy, 
All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby, 
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde, 
As each had bene a Bryde ; 
And each one had a little wicker basket, 
Made of fine twigs, entrayled curiously, 

8 



A LONDON GARLAND 

In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, 

And with fine Fingers cropt full feateously 

The tender stalkes on hye. 

Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew, 

They gathered some ; the Violet, pallid blew, 

The little Dazie, that at evening closes, 

The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew, 

With store of vermeil Roses, 

To decke their Bridegromes' posies 

Against the Brydale day, which was not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. 

With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe 

Come softly swimming downe along the Lee ; 

Two fairer Birds I yet did never see ; 

The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, 

Did never whiter shew, 

Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be 

For love of Leda, whiter did appeare ; 

Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, 

Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare ; 

So purely white they were, 

That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, 

Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare 

To wet their silken feathers, least they might 

Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, 

And marre their beauties bright, 

That shone as heaven's light, 

Against their Brydale day, which was not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. 

Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill, 

Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, 

As they came floating on the Christal Flood ; 

Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still, 

Their wondring eyes to fill ; 

Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre, 

Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme 

Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre 

Which through the Skie draw Venus' silver Teeme ; 

For sure they did not seeme 

To be begot of any earthly Seede, 

But rather Angels, or of Angels' breede ; 

Yet were they bred of Somer's heat, they say, 




10 



A LONDON GARLAND 

In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede 

The earth did fresh aray ; 

So fresh they seem'd as day, 

Even as their Brydale day, which was not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 

Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field, 

That to the sense did fragrant odours yeild, 

All which upon those goodly Birds they threw 

And all the Waves did strew, 

That like old Peneus' Waters they did seeme, 

When downe along by pleasant Tempe's shore, 

Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme, 

That they appeare, through Lillies' plenteous store, 

Like a Bryde's Chamber flore. 

Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound 

Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found, 

The which presenting all in trim Array, 

Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd, 

Whil'st one did sing this Lay, 

Prepar'd against that Day, 

Against their Brydale day, which was not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly till I end my Song. 

" Ye gentle Birdes ! the world's faire ornament, 

And heaven's glorie, whom this happie hower 

Doth leade unto your lovers' blisfull bower, 

Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content 

Of your love's couplement ; 

And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love, 

With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile, 

Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove 

All Love's dislike, and friendship's faultie guile 

For ever to assoile. 

Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord, 

And blessed Plentie wait upon your bord ; 

And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, 

That fruitfull issue may to you afford, 

Which may your foes confound, 

And make your joyes redound 

Upon your Brydale day, which is not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softlie, till I end my Song." 



A LONDON GARLAND 

So ended she ; and all the rest around 
To her redoubled that her undersong, 
Which said their brydale daye should not be long : 
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along, 
Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low, 
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, 
Yet did by signes his glad affection show, 
Making his streame run slow. - 
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell 
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell 
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 
The lesser starres. So they, enranged well, 
Did on those two attend, 
And their best service lend 

Against their wedding day, which was not long : 
Sweete Themmes ! run softly, till I end my Song. 

At length they all to mery London came, 

To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse, 

That to me gave this Life's first native sourse, 

Though from another place I take my name, 

An house of auncient fame : 

There when they came, whereas those bricky towres 

The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde, 

Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers, 

There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde, 

Till they decayd through pride : 

Next whereunto there standes a stately place, 

Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace 

Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell, 

Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case ; 

But ah ! here fits not well 

Olde woes, but joyes, to tell 

Against the bridale daye, which is not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer, 

Great England's glory, and the World's wide wonder, 

Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder, 

And Hercules' two pillors standing neere 

Did make to quake and feare : 

Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie ! 



A LONDON GARLAND 

That fillest England with thy triumphe's fame, 

Joy have thou of thy noble victorie, 

And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name 

That promiseth the same ; 

That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes 

Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes ; 

And great Elisa's glorious name may ring 

Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide Alarmes, 

Which some brave muse may sing 

To ages following. 

Upon the Brydale day, which is not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly till I end my Song. 

From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing, 

Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre 

In th' Ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre, 

Descended to the River's open vewing, 

With a great traine ensuing. 

Above the rest were goodly to bee seene 

Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature, 

Beseeming well the bower of" anie Queene, 

With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, 

Fit for so goodly stature, 

That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight, 

Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright ; 

They two, forth pacing to the River's side, 

Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight ; 

Which, at th' appointed tyde, 

Each one did make his Bryde 

Against their Brydale day, which is not long : 

Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my Song. 

EDMUND SPENS 
(1552-1599). 




WINDSOR FOREST 




Y this, the wedding ends, and brake up all the show : 
And Thames, got, born, and bred, immediately doth flow 
To Windsor-ward amain (that with a wondering eye, 
The forest might behold his awful empery), 
And soon becometh great, with waters wext so rank, 

"hat with his wealth he seems to retch his wid'ned bank ; 

"ill happily attained his grandsire Chiltern's grounds, 

Vho with his beechen wreaths this king of rivers crowns. 

Lmongst his holts and hills, as on his way he makes, 

U Reading once arriv'd, clear Kennet overtakes 

ler lord, the stately Thames, which that great flood again, 

Vith many signs of joy, doth kindly entertain. 

^hen Loddon next comes in, contributing her store ; 

Ls still we see, the much runs ever to the more. 

Set out with all this pomp, when this imperial stream 

limself established sees amidst his wat'ry realm, 



A LONDON GARLAND 

His much-lov'd Henley leaves, and proudly doth pursue 
His wood-nymph Windsor's seat, her lovely site to view. 
Whose most delightful face when once the river sees, 
Which shows herself attir'd in tall and stately trees, 
He in such earnest love with amorous gestures wooes, 
That looking still at her, his way was like to lose ; 
And wand'ring in and out, so wildly seems to go, 
As headlong he himself into her lap would throw. 

Him with the like desire the forest doth embrace, 
And with her presence strives her Thames as much to grace. 
No forest, of them all, so fit as she doth stand, 
When princes, for their sports, her pleasures will command ; 
No wood-nymph as herself such troops hath ever seen, 
Nor can such quarries boast as have in Windsor been ; 
Not any ever had so many solemn days, 
So brave assemblies view'd, nor took so rich assays. 

Then hand in hand, her Thames the forest softly brings 
To that supremest place of the great English kings, 
The Garter's royal seat, from him who did advance 
That princely order first, our first that conquer'd France ; 
The temple of Saint George, whereas his honoured knights, 
Upon his hallow'd day, observe their ancient rites ; 
Where Eaton is at hand to nurse that learned brood, 
To keep the Muses still near to this princely flood ; 
That nothing there may want, to beautify that seat, 
With every pleasure stor'd : and here my song complete. 

MICHAEL DRAYTW 
(1563-1631). 





16 










,->* 



WINDSOR TO LONDON THAMES 




UT now this mighty flood, upon his voyage prest 

(That found how with his strength, his beauties still increas 
From where brave Windsor stood on tip-toe to behold 
The fair and goodly Thames, so far as ere he could, 
With kingly houses crown'd, of more than earthly pride, 
Upon his either banks, as he along doth glide), 
With wonderful delight doth his long course pursue, 
Where Oatlands, Hampton Court, and Richmond he doth view, 
Then Westminster the next great Thames doth entertain ; 
That vaunts her palace large, and her most sumptuous fane : 
The land's tribunal seat that challengeth for her's, 



A LONDON GARLAND 

The crowning of our kings, their famous sepulchres. 
Then goes he on along by that more beauteous strand, 
Expressing both the wealth and bravery of the land. 
(So many sumptuous bowers, within so little space, 
The all-beholding Sun scarce sees in all his race.) 
And on by London leads, which like a crescent lies, 
Whose windows seem to mock the star-befreckled skies ; 
Besides her rising spires, so thick themselves that show, 
As do the bristling reeds within his banks that grow. 
There sees his crowded wharfs, and people-pest'red shores, 
His bosom over-spread with shoals of labouring oars : 
With that most costly bridge that doth him most renown, 
By which he clearly puts all other rivers down. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON, 





A WINTER SONG 



|UTUMN hath all the summer's fruitful treasure ; 

Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure ! 

Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apac 

Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face ? 

Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, 
And here we lie, God knows, with little ease. 
From winter ; plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us ! 

London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn ! 

Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born ! 

The want of term is town and city's harm ; 

Close chambers we do want to keep us warm. 

Long banished must we live from our friends : 

This low-built house will bring us to our ends. 

From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us ! 

THOMAS NASH 
(1567-1600). 




SONG: TO CELIA 



ISS me, sweet : the wary lover 
Can your favours keepe, and cover, 
When the common courting jay 
All your bounties will betray. 
Kiss againe : no creature comes. 

Kisse, and score up wealthy summes 

On my lips, thus hardly sundred, 

While you breathe. First give a hundred, 

Then a thousand, then another 

Hundred, then unto the tother 

Adde a thousand, and so more : 

Till you equall with the store, 

All the grasse that Rumney yeelds, 

Or the sands in Chelsey Fields, 

Or the drops in silver Thames, 

Or the stars, that gild his streames, 

In the silent summer-nights, 

When youths ply their stolen delights. 

That the curious may not know 

How to tell 'hem as they flow, 

And the envious, when they find 

What their number is, be pin'd. 

BEN JONSON 



20 




21 




IN LONDON WAY 



IE on all courtesie, and unruly windes, 
Two onely foes that faire disguisement findes ! 
Strange curse ! but fit for such" a fickle age, 
When scalpes are subject to such vassalage. 
Late travaling along in London way, 

Mee met, as seem'd by his disguis'd array, 

A lustie courtier, whose curled head 

With abron locks was fairely furnished. 

I him saluted in our lavish wise : 

He answeres my untimely courtesies. 

His bonnet vail'd, ere ever he could thinke, 

Th 5 unruly winde blowes off his periwinke. 

He lights and runs, and quickly hath him sped, 

To overtake his over-running head. 

The sportfull winde, to mocke the headlesse man, 

Tosses apace his pitched Rogerian : 

And straight it to a deeper ditch hath blowne ; 

There must my yonker fetch his waxen crowne. 

I lookt and laught, whiles in his raging minde, 

He curst all courtesie, and unruly winde. 

I lookt and laught, and much I mervailed, 

To see so large a caus-way in his head. 

And me bethought, that when it first begon, 

'Twas some shrewd autumne that so bar'd the bone. 

Is't not sweete pride, when men their crownes must shade, 

With that which jerks the hams of every jade, 

Or floor-strow'd locks from off the barber's sheares ? 

But waxen crownes well gree with borrow'd haires. 

JOSEPH HALL 

(1574-1656). 



22 




THE MAY-LORD 



[ONDON, to thee I do present 
The merry month of May ; 
Let each true subject be content 
To hear me what I say : 
For from the top of conduit-head, 

As plainly may appear, 

I will both tell my name to you, 

And wherefore I came here. 

My name is Ralph, by due descent 

Though not ignoble I, 

Yet far inferior to the flock 

Of gracious grocery ; 

And by the common counsel of 

My fellows in the Strand, 

With gilded staff and crossed scarf, 

The May-lord here I stand. 

Rejoice, O English -hearts, rejoice! 

Rejoice, O lovers dear ! 

Rejoice, O city, town, and country ! 

Rejoice eke every shire ! 

For now the fragrant flowers do spring 

And sprout in seemly sort, 

The little birds do sit and sing, 

The lambs do make fine sport ; 

And now the birchen-tree doth bud, 

And makes the schoolboy cry ; 

The morris rings, while hobby-horse 

Doth foot it feateously ; 

The lords and ladies now abroad, 

For their disport and play, 

Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, 

23 



A LONDON GARLAND 

And sometimes in the hay. 

Now butter with a leaf of sage 

Is good to purge the blood ; 

Fly Venus and phlebotomy, 

For they are neither good ! 

Now little fish on tender stone 

Begin to cast their bellies, 

And sluggish snails, that erst were mewed, 

Do creep out of their shellies ; 

The rumbling rivers now do warm, 

For little boys to paddle ; 

The sturdy steed now goes to grass, 

And up they hang his saddle ; 

The heavy hart, the bellowing buck, 

The rascal, and the pricket, 

Are now among the yeoman's pease, 

And leave the fearful thicket ; 

And be like them, O you, I say, 

Of this same noble town, 

And lift aloft your velvet heads, 

And slipping off your gown, 

With bells on legs, and napkins clean 

Unto your shoulders tied, 

With scarfs and garters as you please, 

And " Hey for our town !" cried, 

March out, and show your willing minds, 

By twenty and by twenty, 

To Hogsdon, or to Newington, 

Where ale and cakes are plenty ; 

And let it ne'er be said for shame, 

That we, the youths of London, 

Lay thrumming of our caps at home, 

And left our custom undone. 

Up then, I say, both young and old, 

Both man and maid a-maying, 

With drums and guns that bounce aloud, 

And merry tabor playing ! 

Which to prolong, God save our King, 

And send his country peace, 

And root out treason from the land! 

And so, my friends, I cease. 

JOHN FLETCHER 
(1576-1625). 



LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER 




[ORTALITY, behold and fear ! 

What a change of flesh is here ! 

Think how many royal bones 

Sleep within this heap of stones ; 

Here they lie had realms and lands, 
Who now want strength to stir their hands ; 
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust 
They preach, " In greatness is no trust." 
Here's an acre sown indeed 
With the richest, royall'st seed 
That the earth did e'er suck in, 
Since the first man died for sin : 
Here the bones of birth have cried, 
" Though gods they were, as men they died : " 
Here are sands, ignoble things, 
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings : 
Here's a world of pomp and state, 
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 

FRANCIS BEAUMONT 
(1586-1616). 



26 




V 




TEARES TO THAMASIS 



SEND, I send here my supremest kiss 
To thee, my silver-footed Thamasis. 
No more shall I reiterate thy strand, 
Whereon so many stately structures stand : 
Nor in the summer's sweeter evenings go 

To bath in thee, as thousand others doe : 

No more shall I along thy christall glide, 

In barge with boughes and rushes beautifTd, 

With soft-smooth virgins for our chast disport, 

To Richmond, Kingstone, and to Hampton-Court : 

Never againe shall I with finnie ore 

Put from or draw unto the faithfull shore, 

And landing here, or safely landing there, 

Make way to my beloved Westminster, 

Or to the golden Cheap-side, where the earth 

Of Julia Herrick gave to me my birth. 

May all clean nimphs and curious water-dames 

With swan-like state flote up and down thy streams : 

No drought upon thy wanton waters fall 

To make them leane and languishing at all : 

No ruffling winds come hither to disease 

Thy pure and silver-wristed Naides ! 

Keep up your state, ye streams ; and as ye spring, 

Never make sick your banks by surfeiting ! 

Grow young with tydes, and though I see ye never, 

Receive this vow, so fare ye well for ever ! 

ROBERT HERRICK 

(1591-1674). 




THE LONG VACATION IN LONDON 

(In Verse Burlesque, or Mock Verse) 

OW town-wit sayes to witty friend : 
" Transcribe apace all thou hast pen'd ; 
For I in journey hold it fit, 
To cry thee up to countrey-wit. 
Our mules are come ! dissolve the club ! 

The word, till term, is, ' Rub, O rub ! ' "- 

Now gamester poor, in cloak of stammel, 

Mounted on steed as slow as cammel, 

Battoone of crab in luckless hand 

(Which serves for bilboe and for wand), 

Early in morne does sneak from town, 

Least landlord's wife should seise on crown ; 

On crown, which he in pouch does keep, 

When day is done, to pay for sleep ; 

For he in journey nought does eat. 

Host spies him come, cryes : " Sir, what meat ? " 

He calls for room, and down he lies. 

Quoth host : " No supper, sir ? " He cryes-: 

" I eate no supper, fling on rug ! 

I'm sick, d'you hear ? yet bring a jug ! " 

Now damsel young, that dwels in Cheap, 

For very joy begins to leap : 

Her elbow small she oft does rub, 

Tickled with hope of sillabub ; 

For mother (who does gold maintain 

On thumbe, and keys in silver chaine) 

In snow white clout, wraps nook of pye, 

Fat capon's wing, and rabbet's thigh, 

And says to hackney coachman : " Go, 

Take shillings six, say I, or no." 

30 



A LONDON GARLAND 

" Whither ? " says he. Quoth she : " Thy teame 

Shall drive to place where groweth creame." 

But husband gray now comes to stall, 

For prentice notch'd he straight does call : 

" Where's dame ? " quoth he. Quoth son of shop : 

" She's gone her cake in milk to sop." 

" Ho, ho ! to Islington ! enough ! 

Fetch Job, my son, and our dog Roffe ! 

For there in pond, through mire and muck, 

We'l cry, ' Hay, duck ! there, Ruffe ! hay, duck ! ' 

Now Turnbull-dame, by starving paunch, 

Bates two stone weight in either haunch : 

On branne and liver she must dine, 

And sits at dore instead of signe. 

She softly says to roaring Swash, 

Who wears long whiskers : " Go, fetch cash ! 

There's gown," quoth she, " speak broaker fair, 

Till term brings up weak countrey heir : 

Whom kirtle red will much amaze, 

Whilst clown his man on signes does gaze, 

In liv'ry short, galloone on cape, 

With cloak-bag mounting high as nape." 

Now man that trusts, with weary thighs, 

Seeks garret where small poet lies : 

He comes to Lane, finds garret shut ; 

Then, not with knuckle, but with foot, 

He rudely thrusts, would enter dores ; 

Though poet sleeps not, yet he snores : 

Cit chafes like beast of Libia ; then 

Sweares, he'l not come or send agen. 

From little lump triangular 

Poor poets' sighs are heard afar. 

Quoth he : " Do noble numbers choose 

To walk on feet, that have no shoose ? " 

Then he does wish with fervent breath, 

And as his last request ere death, 

Each ode a bond, each madrigal, 

A lease from Haberdashers' Hall, 

Or that he had protected bin 

At Court, in list of Chamberlain ; 

For wights near thrones care not an ace 

For Woodstreet friend, that wieldeth mace. 

Courts pay no scores but when they list, 

And treasurer still has cramp in fist : 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Then forth he steales ; to Globe does run ; 

And smiles, and vowes four acts are done ; 

Finis to bring he does protest, 

Tells ev'ry play'r his part is best ; 

And all to get (as poets use) 

Some coyne in pouche to solace Muse. 

Now wight that acts on stage of Bull, 

In skullers' bark does lie at hull, 

Which he for pennies two does rig, 

All day on Thames to bob for grig ; 

Whilst fencer poor does by him stand, 

In old dung-lighter, hook in hand, 

Between knees rod, with canvas crib 

To girdle tide, close under rib, 

Where worms are put, which must small fish 

Betray at night to earthen dish. 

Now London's chief, on saddle new, 

Rides into fair of Bartholomew : 

He twirles his chain, and looketh big, 

As if to fright the head of pig, 

That gaping lies on greasy stall 

Till female with great belly call. 

Now alderman in field does stand, 

With foot on trig, a quoit in hand : 

" I'm seven," quoth he, " the game is up ! 

Nothing I pay, and yet I sup." 

To alderman quoth neighbour then : 

" I lost but mutton, play for hen." 

But wealthy blade cryes out : " At rate 

Of kings, should'st play ? let's go, 'tis late ! " 

Now lean atturney, that his cheese 

Ne'er par'd, nor verses took for fees, 

And aged proctor, that controules 

The feats of punk in court of Paul's, 

Do each with solemn oath agree 

To meet in fields of Finsbury : 

With loynes in canvas bow-case tyde, 

Where arrows stick with mickle pride, 

With hats pinn'd up, and bow in hand, 

All day most fiercely there they stand, 

Like ghosts of Adam Bell and Clymme : 

Sol sets for fear they'l shoot at him. 

Now spynie Ralph, and Gregorie small, 

And short hayr'd Stephen, whay-fac'd Paul 



A LONDON GARLAND 

(Whose times are out, indentures torn), 
Who seven long years did never scorn 
To Fetch up coales for maids to use, 
Wipe mistresses' and children's shooes, 
Do jump tor joy they are made free ; 
Hire meagre steeds, to ride and see 
Their parents old who dwell as near 
As place call'd Peake in Derby-shire. 
There they alight, old crones are milde, 
Each weeps on cragg of pretty childe : 
They portions give trades up to set, 
That babes may live, serve God, and cheat. 
Near house of law by Temple-Bar, 
Now man of mace cares not how far, 
In stockings blew he marcheth on, 
With velvet cape his cloak upon : 
In girdle, scrolls, where names of some 
Are written down, whom touch of thumbe, 
On shoulder left must safe convoy, 
Anoying wights with name of Roy ; 
Poor pris'ner's friend that sees the touch, 
Cries out, aloud : " I thought as much ! " 
Now vaulter good, and dancing lass 
On rope, and man that cryes " Hey, pass," 
And tumbler young that needs must stoop, 
Lay head to heel to creep through hoope, 
And man in chimney hid to dress, 
Puppit that acts our old queen Bess, 
And man that whilst the puppits play 
Through nose expoundeth what they say, 
And man that does in chest include 
Old Sodom and Gomorrah lewd, 
And white oate-eater that does dwell 
In stable small, at sign of Bell, 
That lift up hoope to show the prancks, 
Taught by magitian stiled Banks 
And ape, led captive still in chain 
Till he renounce the pope and Spaine : 
All these on hoof now trudge from town 
To cheat poor turnip-eating clown. 
Now man of war with visage red, 
Growes cholerick and sweares for bread. 
He sendeth note to man of kin, 
But man leaves word : " I'm not within." 



A LONDON GARLAND 

He meets in street with friend call'd Will, 

And cryes : " Old rogue ! what, living still ? " 

But ere that street they quite are past, 

He softly asks : " What money hast ? " 

Quoth friend : " A crown ! " He cryes : " Dear heart ! 

O base ! no more ! sweet, lend me part ! ' 

But stay, my frightened pen is fled ; 

Myself through fear creep under bed, 

For just as Muse would scribble more, 

Fierce city dunne did rap at door. 

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT 
(1605-1668). 




A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING 



TELL thee, Dick, where I have been, 
Where I the rarest things have seen ; 
O, things without compare ! 
Such sights again cannot be found 
In any place on English ground, 
Be it at wake or fair. 

At Charing Cross, hard by the way 
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, 
There is a house with stairs ; 
And there did I see coming down 
Such folks as are not in our town, 
Vorty at least, in pairs. 

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine 

(His beard no bigger though than mine) 

Walk'd on before the rest : 

Our landlord looks like nothing to him : 

The king (God bless him !) 'twould undo him : 

Should he go still so drest. 

At Course-a-park, without all doubt, 
He should have first been taken out 
By all the maids i' th' town : 
Though lusty Roger there had been, 
Or little George upon the green, 
Or Vincent of the crown. 

But wot you what ? the youth was going 
To make an end of all his wooing ; 
The parson for him staid : 

35 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Yet by his leave (for all his haste) 
He did not so much wish all past 
(Perchance) as did the maid. 

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) 
For such a maid no Whitson-ale 
Could ever yet produce : 
No grape that's kindly ripe, could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she, 
Nor half so full of juyce. 

Her finger was so small, the ring 

Would not stay on which they did bring 

It was too wide a peck : 

And to say truth (for out it must) 

It look'd like the great collar (just) 

About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
Like little mice, stole in and out, 
As if they fear'd the light : 
But O ! she dances such a way ! 
No sun upon an Easter Day 
Is half so fine a sight. 

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
No daisie makes comparison ; 
(Who sees them is undone) 
For streaks of red were mingled there 
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 
(The side that's next the sun.) 

Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
Compar'd to that was next her chin 
(Some bee had stung it newly). 
But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze, 
Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou'd'st swear her teeth her words did break, 
That they might passage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 
And are not spent a whit. 




37 



A LONDON GARLAND 

If wishing should be any sin, 
The parson himself had guilty been ; 
(She look'd that day so purely :) 
And did the youth so oft the feat 
At night, as some did in conceit, 
It would have spoil'd him, surely. 

Passion, O me ! how I run on ! 

There's that that would be thought upon, 

I trow besides the bride. 

The business of the kitchen's great, 

For it is fit that men should eat, 

Nor was it there denied. 

Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice, 

And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 

Each servingman with dish in hand, 

March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band, 

Presented, and away. 

When all the meat was on the table, 
What man of knife, or teeth, was able 
To stay to be intreated ? 
And this the very reason was, 
Before the parson could say grace, 
The company was seated. 

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse ; 
Healths first go round, and then the house, 
The bride's came thick and thick ; 
And when 'twas nam'd another's health, 
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth 
(And who could help it, Dick ?). 

O' th' suddein up they rise and dance ; 
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance ; 
Then dance again, and kiss : 
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, 
Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, 
And ev'ry man wish'd his. 

By this time all were stol'n aside 
To counsel and undress the bride ; 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Hut that lie must not know : 

But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, 

And did not mean to stay behind 

Above an hour or so. 

When in he came (Dick) there she lay 

Like new fal'n snow melting away 

('Twas time, I trow to part) : 

Kisses were now the only stay, 

Which soon she gave, as who would say : 

" Good boy ! with all my heart ! " 

But just as Heav'ns would have to cross it, 

In came the bride-maids with the posset : 

The bridegroom eat in spight ; 

For had he left the women to't 

It would have cost two hours to do't, 

Which were too much that night. 

SIR JOHN SUCKLING 
(1609-1641). 





HEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY 

APTAIN or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, 
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, 
If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 
He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 

That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 

And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, 

Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : 

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 

Went to the ground ; and the repeated air 

Of sad Electra's poet had the power 

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. JOHN MILTON 

(1608-1674). 




A LONDON CAVALIER 



(Written in 1645) 




OME your ways, 

Bonny boys 

Of the town, 

For now is your time or never. 

Shall your fears 
Or your cares 
Cast you down? 
Hang your wealth 
And your health. 
Get renown, 

We are all undone for ever. 
Now the king and the crown 
Are tumbling down, 

And the realm doth groan with disasters, 
And the scum of the land 
Are the men that command, 
And our slaves are become our masters. 



Now our lives, 

Children, wives 

And estate, 

Are a prey to the lust and plunder, 

To the rage 

( )f our age : 

And the fate 

Of our land 

K at hand : 

41 



A LONDON GARLAND 

'Tis too late 

To tread these usurpers under. 

First down goes the crown, 

Then follows the gown, 

Thus levell'd are we by the roundhead, 

While church and state must 

Feed their pride and their lust, 

And the kingdom and king confounded. 

Shall we still 

Suffer ill 

And be dumb ? 

And let every varlet undo us ? 

Shall we doubt 

Of each lout, 

That doth come, 

With a voice 

Like the noise 

Of a drum, 

And a sword or a buff" coat to us ? 

Shall we lose our estates 

By plunder and rates 

To bedeck those proud upstarts that swagger ? 

Rather fight for your meat, 

Which those locusts do eat, 

Now every man's a beggar. 

ALEXANDER BROME 

(1620-1666). 



A TOWN GALLANT 




OOM for a brisk Blade of the Town 

That takes Delight in roaring, 
Who all day rambles up and down, 

And at night in the street lies snoring ! 
That for the noble name of Spark 
Dares his Companions rally : 
Commits an Outrage in the Dark, 
Then slinks into an Alley ! 

To every Female that he meets 

He swears he bears affection ; 
Defies all Laws, Arrests, and Cheats 

By the Help of a kind Protection : 
Till he, intending further Wrongs, 

By some resenting Cully 
Is decently run through the lungs, 

And there is an End of Bully ! 

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTJ 

(1647-1680). 




45 





A CITY SHOWER 

AREFUL observers may foretell the hour 
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower. 
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er 
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. 
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink 

Strike your offended sense with double stink. 

If you be wise, then go not far to dine ; 

You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. 

A coming shower your shooting corns presage, 

Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage. 

Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen ; 

He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. 

Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings, 

A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, 

That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, 

And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. 

Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, 

While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope. 

Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean 

Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean : 

You fly, invoke the gods ; then, turning, stop 

4" 



A LONDON GARLAND 

To rail ; she, singing still, whirls on her mop. 

Not yet the dust that shunn'd th' unequal strife, 

But, aided by the wind, fought still for life ; 

And, wafted with its foe by violent gust, 

'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust. 

Ah ! where must needy poet seek for aid, 

When dust and rain at once his coat invade? 

Sole coat ! where dust, cemented by the rain, 

Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain ! 

Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, 

Threatening with deluge this devoted town. 

To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, 

Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. 

The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, 

Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. 

The tuck'd-up semstress walks with hasty strides, 

While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. 

Here various kinds, by various fortunes, led, 

Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. 

Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs 

Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. 

Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits, 

While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, 

And ever and anon with frightful din 

The leather sounds ; he trembles from within. 

So when Troy chairmen bore the Wooden Steed, 

Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed 

(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, 

Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through), 

Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, 

And each imprisoned hero quak'd for fear. 

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, 
And bear their trophies with them as they go : 
Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell 
What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell. 
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, 
From Smithfield or St. 'Pulchres shape their course, 
And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, 
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge. 
Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, 
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud, 
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the Flood, 

JONATHAN SWIFT 

(1667-1745). 



.-*v 




JJ 



X 



49 




A WOMAN OF FASHION 

HEN, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat, 
And so, like a cornet's, tucked under my hat, 
Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as^ a lark, 
And, followed by John, take the dust in High Park, 
In the way I am met by some smart macaroni, 

Who rides by my side on a little bay pony 

No sturdy Hibernian, with shoulders so wide, 

But as taper and slim as the ponies they ride ; 

Their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider, 

Dear sweet little creatures, both pony and rider ! 

" But sometimes, when hotter, I order my chaise, 
And manage, myself, my two little greys ; 
Sure never were seen two such sweet little ponies, 
Other horses are clowns, and these macaronies, 
And to give them this title, I'm sure isn't wrong, 
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long. 

" In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down, 
You know was the fashion before you left town, 
The thing's well enough, when allowance is made 
For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade. 
But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords 
To those noisy impertinent creatures call'd birds, 
Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene, 
Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen. 

" Yet, though 'tis too rural to come near the mark, 
We all herd in one walk, and that, nearest the Park, 
There with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket, 
The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and footmen at cricket. 
I must though, in justice, declare that the grass, 
Which, worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace, 
In a little time more will be brown and as flat 
As the sand at Vauxhall, or as Ranelagh mat, 
Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees 
We may see rolls and butter spread under the trees, 
With a small pretty band in each seat of the walk, 
To play little tunes and enliven our talk." 

THOMAS TICKELL 

(1686-1740). 
50 




HAMPTON COURT 




LOSE by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, 
There stands a structure of majestic frame, 
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes it's name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 

Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home ; 

Here thou, great ANNA ! whom three realms obey, 

Dost sometimes counsel take and sometimes tea. 
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 

To taste awhile the pleasures of a Court ; 

In various talk th' instructive hours they past, 

Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; 

One speaks the glory of the British Queen, 

And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 

A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; 

At ev'ry word a reputation dies. 

Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 

With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

ALEXANDER POPE 
(1688-1744). 




. , 




NIGHTWALKING 



[HEN Night first bids the twinkling stars appear, 
Or with her cloudy vest enwraps the air, 
Then swarms the busy street ; with caution tread, 
Where the shop-windows 1 falling threat thy head; 
Now labourers home return and join their strength 

To bear the tottering plank, or ladder's length ; 

Still fix thy eyes intent upon the throng, 

And, as the passes open, wind along. 

Where the fair columns of St. Clement stand, 

Whose straiten'd bounds encroach upon the Strand ; 

Where the low penthouse bows the walker's head, 

And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread ; 

Where not a post protects the narrow space, 

And strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face ; 

Summon at once thy courage, rouze thy care, 

Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware. 

Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier's steeds 

Drag the black load ; another cart succeeds, 

Team follows team, crowds heap'd on crowds appear, 

And wait impatient till the road grow clear. 

Now all the pavement sounds with trampling feet, 

And the mix'd hurry barricades the street. 

Entangled here, the waggon's lengthen'd team 

Cracks the tough harness ; here a ponderous beam 

Lies over-turn'd athwart ; for slaughter fed, 

Here lowing bullocks raise their horned head. 

Now oaths grow loud, with coaches coaches jar, 

And the smart blow provokes the sturdy war ; 

1 A species of window now almost forgotten. N. 
54 




55 



A LONDON GARLAND 

From the high box they whirl the thong around, 

And with the twining lash their shins resound : 

Their rage ferments, more dangerous wounds they try, 

And the blood gushes down their painful eye. 

And now on foot the frowning warriors light, 

And with their ponderous fists renew the fight ; 

Blow answers blow, their cheeks are smear'd with blood, 

Till down they fall, and grappling roll in mud. 

So when two boars, in wild Ytene l bred, 

Or on Westphalia's fattening chesnuts fed, 

Gnash their sharp tusks, and, rouz'd with equal fire, 

Dispute the reign of some luxurious mire; 

In the black flood they wallow o'er and o'er, 

Till their arm'd jaws distil with foam and gore. 

Where the mob gathers, swiftly shoot along, 
Nor idly mingle in the noisy throng: 
Lur'd by the silver hilt, amid the swarm, 
The subtle artist will thy side disarm. 
Nor is the flaxen wig with safety worn ; 
High on the shoulder, in a basket borne, 
Lurks the sly boy, whose hand, to rapine bred, 
Plucks off the curling honours of thy head. 
Here dives the skulking thief, with practis'd sleight, 
And unfelt fingers make thy pocket light. 
Where's now the watch, with all its trinkets, flown ? 
And thy late snuff-box is no more thy own. 
But lo ! his bolder thefts some tradesman spies, 
Swift from his prey the scudding lurcher flies ; 
Dext'rous he 'scapes the coach with nimble bounds, 
Whilst every honest tongue " Stop thief!" resounds. 
So speeds the wily fox, alarm'd by fear, 
Who lately filch'd the turkey's callow care ; 
Hounds following hounds grow louder as he flies, 
And injur'd tenants join the hunter's cries. 
Breathless, he stumbling falls. Ill-fated boy ! 
Why did not honest work thy youth employ ? 
Seiz'd by rough hands, he's dragged amid the rout, 
And stretch'd beneath the pump's incessant spout : 
Or, plung'd in miry ponds, he gasping lies, 
Mud chokes his mouth, and .plaisters o'er his eyes. 

Let not the ballad singer's shrilling strain 
Amid the swarm thy listening ear detain : 
Guard -well thy pocket; for these Syrens stand 

1 New Forest in Hampshire, anciently so called. 



A LONDON GARLAND 57 

To aid the labours of the diving hand ; 
Confederate in the cheat, they draw the throng, 
And cambric handkerchiefs reward the song. 
But soon as coach or cart drives rattling on, 
The rabble part, in shoals they backward run. 
So Jove's loud bolts the mingled war divide, 
And Greece and Troy retreat on either side. 

If the rude throng pour on with furious pace, 
And hap to break thee from a friend's embrace, 
Stop short ; nor struggle through the crowd in vain, 
But watch with careful eye the passing train. 
Yet I (perhaps too fond), if chance the tide 
Tumultuous bear my partner from my side, 
Impatient venture back ; despising harm, 
I force my passage where the thickest swarm. 
Thus his lost bride the Trojan sought in vain 
Through night, and arms, and flames, and hills of slain. 
Thus Nisus wander'd o'er the pathless grove 
To find the brave companion of his love. 
The pathless grove in vain he wanders o'er : 
Euryalus, alas! is now no more. 

That walker who, regardless of his pace, 
Turns oft to pore upon the damsel's face, 
From side to side by thrusting elbows tost, 
Shall strike his aching breast against a post ; 
Or water, dash'd from fishy stalls, shall stain 
His hapless coat with spirts of scaly rain. 
But, if unwarily he chance to stray 
Where twirling turnstiles intercept the way, 
The thwarting passenger shall force them round 
And beat the wretch half breathless to the ground. 

Let constant vigilance thy footsteps guide, 
And wary circumspection guard thy side ; 
Then shalt thou walk, unharm'd, the dangerous night, 
Nor need th' officious linkboy's smoky light. 
Thou never will attempt to cross the road, 
Where ale-house benches rest the porter's load, 
Grievous to heedless shins ; no barrow's wheel, 
That bruises oft the truant school-boy's heel, 
Behind thee rolling, with insidious pace, 
Shall mark thy stocking with a miry trace. 
Let not thy venturous steps approach too nigh, 
Where, gaping wide, low steepy cellars lie. 
Should thy shoe wrench aside, down, down you fall, 



A LONDON GARLAND 

And overturn the scolding huckster's stall ; 
The scolding huckster shall not o'er thee moan, 
But pence exact for nuts and pears overthrown. 

Though you through cleanlier allies wind by day, 
To shun the hurries of the public way, 
Yet ne'er to those dark paths by night retire ; 
Mind only safety, and contemn the mire. 
Then no impervious courts thy haste detain, 
Nor sneering alewives bid thee turn again. 

Where Lincoln's-inn, wide space, is rail'd around, 
Cross not with venturous step ; there oft is found 
The lurking thief, who, while the day-light shone, 
Made the walls echo with his begging tone : 
That crutch, which late compassion mov'd, shall wound 
Thy bleeding head, and fell thee to the ground. 

Though thou art tempted by the link-man's call, 
Yet trust him not along the lonely wall ; 
In the mid way he'll quench the flaming brand, . 
And share the booty with the pilfering band. 
Still keep the public streets, where oily rays, 
Shot from the crystal-lamp o'erspread the ways. 

JOHN GAY 
(1688-1732). 







SALLY IN OUR ALLEY 



F all the girls that are so smart 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady in the land 
Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 
And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely ; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely 
But let him bang his bellyful, 

I'll bear it all for Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's in the week 

I dearly love but one day 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday ; 

59 



A LONDON GARLAND 

For then I'm drest all in my best 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

And often am I blamed 
Because I leave him in the lurch 

As soon as text is named ; 
I leave the church in sermon-time 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again 

O then I shall have money ; 
Fll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I'll give it to my honey : 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

I'd give it all to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master and the neighbours all 

Make game of me and Sally, 
And, but for her, I'd better be 

A slave and row a galley ; 
But when my seven long years are out 

O then I'll marry Sally, 
And then how happily we'll live 

But not in our alley ! 

HENRY CAREY 
(16 -1743). 




ST. JAMES'S CHAPEL 



[AST Sunday at St. James's prayers, 
The prince and princess by, 
I, drest in all my whale-bone airs, 

Sat in a closet nigh. 
I bow'd my knees, I held my book, 
Read all the answers o'er ; 
But was perverted by a look, 

Which pierced me from the door. 
High thoughts of Heaven I came to use 

With the devoutest care ; 
Which gay young Strephon made me lose, 

And all the raptures there. 
He stood to hand me to my chair, 

And bow'd with courtly grace ; 
But whisper'd love into my ear, 

Too warm for that grave place. 
" Love, love," said he, " by all adored, 

My tender heart has won." 
But I grew peevish at the word, 

And bade he would be gone. 
He went quite out of sight, while I 

A kinder answer meant ; 
Nor did I for my sins that day 
By half so much repent. 

ANONYMOUS. 




FROM RICHMOND HILL 

(1727) 

SAY, shall we wind 

LONG the streams ? or walk the smiling mead ? 
Or court the forest glades ? or wander wild 
Among the waving harvests ? or ascend, 
While radiant Summer opens all its pride, 
Thy hill, delightful Shene P 1 Here let us sweep 

The boundless landscape : now the raptured eye, 

Exulting, swift to huge Augusta send, 

Now to the Sister Hills that skirt her plain, 

To lofty Harrow now, and now to where 

Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow. 

In lovely contrast to this glorious view 

Calmly magnificent, then will we turn 

To where the silver Thames first rural grows. 

There let the feasted eye unwearied stray : 

Luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods 

That nodding hang o'er Harrington's retreat ; 

And, stopping thence to Ham's embowering walks, 

Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retired, 

With her the pleasing partner of his heart, 

The worthy Queensberry yet laments his Gay, 

And polished Cornbury wooes the willing Muse, 

Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames ; 

Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt 

In Twit'nam's bowers, and for their Pope implore 

The healing God, to royal Hampton's pile, 

To Clermont's terraced height, and Esher's groves, 

Where in the sweetest solitude, embraced 

1 Ancient name of Richmond. 






A LONDON GARLAND 

By the soft windings of the silent Mole, 
From courts and senates Pelham finds repose. 
Enchanting vale ! beyond whatever the Muse 
Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung ! 
O vale of bliss ! O softly swelling hills ! 
On which the power of cultivation lies, 
And joys to see the wonders of his toil. 

Heavens ! what a goodly prospect spreads around, 
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, 
And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all 
The stretching landscape into smoke decays ! 
Happy Britannia ! where the Queen of Arts, 
Inspiring vigour, Liberty abroad 
Walks, unconfined, even to thy farthest cots, 
And scatters plenty with unsparing hand. 

JAMES THOMSON 

(1700-1748). 





/CO 



LONDON JAUNTS 

|O when some City wife for change of air 
To Hampstead or to Highgate does repair, 
Her to make haste her husband does implore, 
And cries, " My dear, the coach is at the door ! " 
With equal haste, desirous to be gone, 
She gets into the coach, and then she cries, " Drive on ! " 

HENRY FIELDING 

(1707-1754). 




69 




LONDON JARS 



O, when two dogs are fighting in the streets, 
With a third dog one of these two dogs meets ; 
With angry tooth he bites him to the bone 
And this dog smarts for what that dog hath done ! 

HENRY FIELDING. 




<7:/. SrcrnplorL^ 

y 2 




THE RED LION, HENLEY 



O thee, fair Freedom ! I retire, 

From flattery, feasting, dice and din ; 
Nor art thou found in domes much higher 
Than the lone cot or humble Inn. 



'Tis here with boundless power I reign, 

And every health which I begin, 
Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 

For Freedom crowns it, at an Inn. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from state, 

I fly from falsehood's spacious grin ; 
Freedom I love, and form I hate, 

And choose my lodgings at an Inn. 

Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 

Which lacqueys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what Courts have not in store, 
It buys me Freedom, at an Inn. 

And now once more I shape my way 

Through rain or shine, through thick or thin, 

Secure to meet, at close of day, 

With kind reception at an Inn. 

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, 

Where'er his stages may have been, 
May sigh to think how oft he found 

The warmest welcome at an Inn. 

WILLIAM SHENSTONE 

(1714-1763). 



73 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
ETON COLLEGE 

(1742) 




E distant spires, ye antique towers, 
That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye, that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 
His silver-winding way : 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet which enthrall ? 

74 




75 



A LONDON GARLAND 

What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on earnest business bent, 

Their murmuring labours ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty, 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry : 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new, 

And lively cheer, of vigour born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom, 

The little victims play ; 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate, 

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murtherous band ! 

Ah, tell them they are men ! 

These shall the fury passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind, 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 






A LONDON GARLAND 

And Envy wan and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 
And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this will tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye, 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen, 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every labouring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage ; 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men, 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 

THOMAS GRAY 
(1716-1771). 



STRAWBERRY-HILL 

A BALLAD 

he tune of a former song written by G. BUBB DODDINGTON, LORD MELCOMB, the burthen 
of which waS) My Strawberry^ my Strawberry shall bear away the Bell. 



|OME cry up Gunnersbury, 1 

For Sion some declare ; 
And some say that with Chiswick-house 2 

No villa can compare : 
But ask the beaux of Middlesex, 
Who know the county well, 
If Strawb'ry-hill, if Strawb'ry-hill 
Don't bear away the bell ? 




ii 



" Some love to roll down Greenwich-hill 

For this thing and for that ; 
And some prefer sweet Marble-hill, 3 

Tho' sure 'tis somewhat flat : 
Yet Marble-hill and Greenwich-hill, 

If Kitty Clive can tell, 
From Strawb'ry-hill, from Strawb'ry-hill 

Will never bear the bell. 

in 

" Tho' Surrey boasts its Oatlands, 4 

And Clermont 5 kept so jim [neat], 

1 Where lived the Princess Amelia, now, in a re-erected form, Lord Rothschild's. 

2 Now the Marquis of Bute's, at Chiswick. 3 Lady Suffolk's. 

The Duke of York's, near Weybridge. 5 Claremont, the Duke of Newcastle's, at Esher. 

78 



A LONDON GARLAND 

And some prefer sweet Southcote's, 1 
'Tis but a dainty whim : 

For ask the gallant Bristow, 
Who does in taste excell, 

If Strawb'ry-hill, if Strawb'ry-hill 
Don't bear away the bell ? 

IV 

Since Denham sung of Cooper's, 

There's scarce a hill around, 
But what in song or ditty 

Is turn'd to fairy-ground 
Ah ! peace be with their memories ! 

I wish them wond'rous well, 
But Strawb'ry-hill, but Strawb'ry-hill 

Must bear away the bell. 



" Great William dwells at Windsor,' 2 

As Edward did of old, 
And many a Gaul and many a Scot 

Have found him full as bold. 
On lofty hills like Windsor 

Such heroes ought to dwell, 
Yet little folks like Strawb'ry-hill, 

Like Strawb'ry-hill as well." 

1 Philip Southcote's ferme ornee at Woburn Park. 
2 Cumberland Lodge, at the end of the Long Walk at Windsor. 

(N.B. This is copied from Walpole's Catalogue of Strawberry Hill, 1774, pp. 1 17-1 19. A note s; 
" The 2nd, 4th, and 5th stanzas were added by another hand" [i.e. Walpole's own].) 

WILLIAM PULTENEY, EARL OF BATH 

(1682-1764). 




p "^ . *- % 






H^Hif 

" 



'& 




A CHAMBER IN GRUB STREET 



|HERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
Where Calvert's butt and Parsons' black champai 
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane ; 
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug ; 
A window, patched with paper, lent a ray 
That dimly showed the state in which he lay ; 
The sanded floor, that grits beneath the tread ; 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
The royal game of goose was there in view, 
And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew ; 
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 
And brave Prince William show'd his lampblack face : 
The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : 
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 
And five crack'd teacups drap'd the chimney-board ; 
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay ; 
A cap by night a stocking all the day ! 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

(1728-1774). 



81 




THE CONTRAST 



N London I never knew what I'd be at, 
Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that ; 
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, 
And Life seems a blessing too happy for man. 



But the Country, Lord help me ! sets all matters right, 
So calm and composing from morning to night ; 
Oh! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen 
But an ass on a common, a goose on a green. 

In town, if it rain, why it damps not our hope, 
The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope ; 
What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days ? 
It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. 

In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields, 
To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields ; 
Or go crawling from window to window, to see 
A pig on a dunghill, or crow on a tree. 

In London, if folks ill together are put, 
A bore may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut ; 
We change without end ; and if lazy or ill, 
All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. 

In the country you're nail'd, like a pale in the park, 
To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in the ark ; 
And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down, 
You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town 

82 



A LONDON GARLAND 

In London how easy we visit and meet, 
Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat 
Our morning's a round of good-humour'd delight, 
And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night. 

In the country, how sprightly! our visits we make 
Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake ; 
With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog, 
And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog. 

In London the spirits are cheerful and light, 
All places are gay and all faces are bright ; 
We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim, 
Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim. 

But how gay in the country ! what summer delight 
To be waiting for winter from morning to night ! 
Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee 
To relish the sweet rural subjects we see. 

In town we've no use for the skies overhead, 
For when the sun rises then we go to bed ; 
And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon, 
She shines out of season, like satin in June. 

In the country these planets delightfully glare 
Just to show us the object we want isn't there ; 
O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, 
To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes ! 

But 'tis in the country alone we can find 
That happy resource, that relief to the mind, 
When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, 
And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake. 

Indeed I must own 'tis a pleasure complete 

To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet, 

But what is all that to the transport we feel 

When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel ! 

I have heard tho' that love in a cottage is sweet, 
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet : 
That's to come for as yet I, alas! am a swain 
Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees, 
And chatter their transports in groves, if they please: 
But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, 
And for groves, O ! a good grove of chimneys for me. 

In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, 
The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about ; 
But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, 
Where, for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure. 

I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy, 

That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye ; 

But in London these devils so quick fly about, 

That a new devil still drives an old devil out. 

In town let me live then, in town let me die, 
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. 
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, 
O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall ! 

CAPTAIN CHARLES MORRIS 

(1740-1832). 



WAPPING OLD STAIRS 




OUR Molly has never been false, she declares, 

Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs ; 
When I said that I would continue the same, 
And gave you the 'bacco box mark'd with my name. 
When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with yoi 

Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew ? 

To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd, 

For his trousers I wash'd, and his grog too I made. 

Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall 
With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sail, 
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear, 
And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. 
Why should Sail, or should Susan, than me be more prized ? 
For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised. 
Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake ; 
Still your trousers I'll wash, and your grog too I'll make. 

CHARLES DIBDIN 

(1745-1814). 




HOLY THURSDAY 




WAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, 
Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and 

green : 
Grey-headed beadles walk'd before, with wands as white as 

snow, 
1 into the high dome of St. Paul's, they like Thames' waters flow. 

what a multitude they seem'd, these flowers of London town, 
.ted in companies they were, with radiance all their own : 
e hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, 
ousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. 

w like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, 
like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among : 
neath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor, 
en cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. 

WILLIAM BLAKE 

(1757-1827). 




LONDON FROM SHOOTER'S HILL 



HE sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
Which well beseem'd the " Devil's drawing-room," 
As some have qualified that wondrous place : 
But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 
As one who, though he were not of the race, 
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t'other. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 

Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 

Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ; 

A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 

On a fool's head and there is London Town ! 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour 
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper) : 
The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, 
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

GEORGE GORDON BYRON, LORD BYRON 

(1788-1824). 



8 9 



UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE 

SEPT. 3, 1802 



ARTH has not anything to show more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth like a garment wear 




The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky, 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

(1770-1850). 




9 1 




02 







THE MERMAID TAVERN 



IOULS of poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 

Than mine host's Canary wine ? 

Or are fruits of Paradise 

Sweeter than those dainty pies 

Of venison ? O generous food ! 

Brest as though bold Robin Hood 

Would, with his maid Marian, 

Sup and browse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new old-sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 

JOHN KEATS 
(1795-1821;. 



93 




94 




MOLESEY HURST 



IS Life to see the first dawn stain 
With sallow light the window pane : 
To dress to wear a rough drab coat, 
With large pearl buttons all afloat 
Upon the waves of plush : to tie 

A kerchief of the king-cup dye 

(White-spotted with a small bird's-eye) 

Around the neck, and from the nape 

Let fall an easy, fan-like cape ! 

'Tis Life to reach the livery stable, 

Secure the ribbands and the day-bill, 

And mount a gig that had a spring 

Some summers back, and then take wing 

Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue) 

A guide whose " withers are unwrung " ; 

Who stands erect, and yet forlorn, 

And, from a half-pay life of corn, 

Showing as many points each way 

As Martial's " Epigrammata " ; 

Yet who, when set a-going goes 

Like one undestined to repose. 

'Tis LIFE to revel down the road, 

And queer each o'erfraught chaise's load ; 

To rave and rattle at the gate, 

And shower upon the gatherer s pate 

Oaths by the dozen, and such speeches 

As well betoken one's slang riches ; 

To take of Deady's bright stark-naked 

A glass or so 'tis LIFE to take it ! 

O, it is LIFE to see a proud 

And dauntless man step, full of hopes, 

Up to the P.C. stakes and ropes, 

95 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Throw in his hat, and, with a spring, 
Get gallantly within the Ring ; 
Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile, 
Taking all cheering with a smile ! 
To watch him strip his well-trained form, 
White, glowing, muscular, and warm, 
All beautiful and conscious power 
Released and quiet till the hour : 
His glossy and transparent frame 
In radiant plight to strive for fame ! 
To look upon the clean-shaped limb 
In silk and flannel clothed trim ; 
While round the waist the kerchief tied 
Makes the flesh glow in richer pride ! 
'Tis more than LIFE to watch him hold 
His hand forth, tremulous yet bold, 
Over his second's, and to clasp 
His rival's in a quiet grasp ; 
To watch the noble attitude 
He takes the crowd in breathless mood ; 
And then to see with adamant start 
The muscles set, and the great heart 
Throb a courageous, splendid light 
Into the eyes and then THE FIGHT ! 

JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

(1795-1852?). 





97 



THE BOY AT THE NORE 




SAY, little Boy at the Nore, 

Do you come from the small Isle of Man ? 
Why, your history a mystery must be, 
Come tell us as much as you can, 

Little Boy at the Nore ! 

You live, it seems, wholly on water, 

Which your Gambier calls living in clover ; 

But how comes it, if that is the case, 
You're eternally half-seas over, 

Little Boy at the Nore ? 

While you ride, while you dance, while you float, 
Never mind your imperfect orthography ; 

But give us, as well as you can, 
Your watery autobiography, 

Little Boy at the Nore ! 



BOY AT THE NORE loquitur 

I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore, 

In a sort of sea negus I dwells ; 
Half and half 'twixt salt-water and Port, 

I'm reckoned the first of the swells, 

I'm the Boy at the Nore ! 

I lives with my toes to the flounders, 

And watches through long days and nights ; 
Yet, cruelly eager, men look 

To catch the first glimpse of my lights, 
I'm the Boy at the Nore. 
98 




99 



A LONDON GARLAND 

I never gets cold in the head, 

So my life on salt water is sweet ; 
I think I owes much of my health 

To being well used to wet feet 

As the Boy at the Nore. 

There's one thing, I'm never in debt ; 

Nay ! I liquidates more than I oughter ; 
So the man to beat Cits as goes by, 

In keeping the head above water, 

Is the Boy at the Nore. 

I've seen a good deal of distress, 

Lots of Breakers in Ocean's Gazette ; 
They should do as I do, rise o'er all ; 

Ay, a good floating capital get, 

Like the boy at the Nore ! 

I'm a'ter the sailor's own heart, 

And cheers him, in deep water rolling ; 

And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, 

Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, 
Is the Boy at the Nore ! 

Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off 

For a week to make love to my wheedles ; 

If the tight little Boy at the Nore 

Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles, 
We'd have two at the Nore ! 

They thinks little of sizes on water, 

On big waves the tiny one skulks, 
While the river has Men of War on it, 

Yes, the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks, 
And the Boy's at the Nore ! 

w 

But I've done, for the water is heaving 

Round my body as though it would sink it ! 

And I've been so long pitching and tossing, 
That sea-sick you'd hardly now think it- 
Is the Boy at the Nore ! 

THOMAS HOOD 
(1798-1845). 



A BALLAD OF GUY FAWKES 




SING a doleful tragedy, 

Guy Fawkes the prince of sinisters, 
Who once blew up the House of Lords, 

The King and all his Ministers ; 
'That is he would have blown them up, 
And folks will ne'er forget him ; 
His will was good to do the deed 
That is if they'd have let him 
Bow, wow, wow, 
Right tol de riddle diddle, 
Bow, wow, wow. 



ii 



He straightway came from Lambeth side, 

And wish'd the state was undone ; 
And, crossing over Vauxhall Bridge, 

That way came into London ; 
7~/W is he would have come that way 

To perpetrate his guilt, Sirs ; 
But a little thing prevented him ; 

The bridge it was not built, Sirs. 



in 

Then searching through the dreary vaults, 
With portable gas-light, Sirs, 

About to touch the powder train, 

At witching hour of night, Sirs 
103 



A LONDON GARLAND 

That is he would have used the gas, 
But that he was prevented ; 

Because, you see, in James's time 
It had not been invented. 

IV 

And when they caught him in the fact, 

So very near the Crown's end, 
They straightway sent to Bow Street, 

For the famous runner Townsend ; 
That is they would have sent for him, 

For fear he was no starter at 
But Townsend was not living then ; 

He wasn't born till arter that. 



So then they put poor Guy to death, 

For ages to remember, 
And boys now burn him, once a year, 

In dreary, dark November ; 
That is I mean his effigy, 

For truth is strong and steady- 
Poor Guy they cannot kill again, 

Because he's dead already. 

VI 

Then bless Her Gracious Majesty 
And bless her Royal Son, Sirs, 

And may he never get blown up : 
We can't spare such a one, Sirs. 

And if he's King, I'm sure he'll reign- 
So prophesies my song, Sirs, 

But if he don't, why then he won't, 
And so I can't be wrong, Sirs. 

THOMAS HUDSON 







io6 




GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 



OOD night to the Season ! 'Tis over ! 

Gay dwellings no longer are gay ; 
The courtier, the gambler, the lover, 

Are scattered like swallows away. 
There's nobody left to invite one 
Except my good uncle and spouse ; 
My mistress is bathing at Brighton, 

My patron is sailing at Cowes ; 
For want of better employment, 

Till Ponto and Don can get out, 
I'll cultivate rural enjoyment, 
And angle immensely for trout. 

Good night to the Season ! the lobbies, 

Their changes and rumours of change, 
Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies, 

And made all the Bishops look strange ; 
The breaches, and battles, and blunders, 

Performed by the Commons and Peers ; 
The Marquis's eloquent blunders, 

The Baronet's eloquent ears ; 
Denouncings of Papists and treasons, 

Of foreign dominions and oats ; 
Misrepresentations of reasons, 

And misunderstandings of notes. 

Good night to the Season ! the buildings 

Enough to make Inigo sick ; 
The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings 

Of stucco, and marble, and brick : 
The orders deliciously blended 

From love of effect into one ; 



T07 



A LONDON GARLAND 

The club-houses only intended, 

The palaces only begun ; 
The hell, where the fiend in his glory 

Sits staring at putty and stones, 
And scrambles from story to story, 

To rattle at midnight his bones. 

Good night to the Season ! the dances, 

The fillings of hot little rooms, 
The glancings of rapturous glances, 

The fancyings of fancy costumes ; 
The pleasures which fashion makes duties, 

The praisings of fiddles and flutes, 
The luxury of looking at Beauties, 

The tedium of talking to mutes ; 
The female diplomatists, planners 

Of matches for Laura and Jane ; 
The ice of her Ladyship's manners, 

The ice of his Lordship's champagne. 

Good night to the Season ! the rages 

Led off by the chiefs of the throng, 
The Lady Matilda's new pages, 

The Lady Eliza's new song ; 
Miss Fennel's macaw, which at Boodle's 

Was held to have something to say ; 
Mr. Splenetic's musical poodles 

Which bark Batti Batfi" all day ; 
The pony Sir Araby sported, 

As hot and as black as a coal, 
And the Lion his mother imported, 

In bearskins and grease, from the Pole. 

Good night to the Season ! the Toso, 

So very majestic and tall ; 
Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so, 

And Pasta, divinest of all ; 
The labour in vain of the ballet, 

So sadly deficient in stars ; 
The foreigners thronging the Alley, 

Exhaling the breath of cigars ; 
The loge where some heiress (how killing !) 

Environed with exquisites sits, 
The lovely one out of her drilling, 

The silly ones out of their wits. 







? 



1 00 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Good night to the Season ! the splendour 

That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar ; 
Where I purchased my heart was so tender 

A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, 
A bottle of perfume, a girdle, 

A lithographed Riego, full-grown, 
Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle 

That artists might draw him on stone ; 
A small panorama of Seville, 

A trap for demolishing flies, 
A caricature of the Devil, 

And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes. 

Good night to the Season ! the flowers 

Of the grand horticultural^ fete, 
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers, 

And the fashion was not to be late ; 
When all who had money and leisure 

Grew rural o'er ices and wines, 
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure, 

All hungrily pining for pines, 
And making of beautiful speeches, 

And marring of beautiful shows, 
And feeding on delicate peaches, 

And treading on delicate toes. 

Good night to the Season ! Another 

Will come with its trifles and toys, 
And hurry away, like its brother, 

In sunshine, and odour, and noise. 
Will it come with a rose or a briar ? 

Will it come with a blessing or curse ? 
Will its bonnets be lower or higher ? 

Will its morals be better or worse ? 
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter, 

Or fonder of wrong or of right, 
Or married or buried ? no matter : 

Good night to the Season good night ! 

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 
(1802-1839). 




THAT 'twere possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again ! 



ii 

When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 



in 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee : 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be. 



IV 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



1 1 1 




I I 2 



A LONDON GARLAND 



Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ;, 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 



VI 



'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendour falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 



VII 



Do I hear her sing as of old, 

My bird with the shining head, 

My own dove with. the tender eye? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, 

There is some one dying or dead, 

And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 

For a tumult shakes the city, 

And I wake, my dream is fled ; 

In the shuddering dawn, behold, 

Without knowledge, without pity, 

By the curtains of my bed 

That abiding phantom cold. 



A LONDON GARLAND 



VIII 

Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about ! 
'Tis the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 



IX 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapours choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame, 

It crosses here, it crosses there, 

Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 

The shadow still the same ; 

And on my heavy eyelids 

My anguish hangs like shame. 



XI 



Alas tor her that met me, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



A LONDON GARLAND 



XII 



Would the happy spirit descend, 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say, " Forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest " ? 



XIII 



But the broad light glares and beats, 

And the shadow flits and fleets 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets, 

And the faces that one meets, 

Hearts with no love for me : 

Always I long to creep 

Into some still cavern deep, 

There to weep, and weep, and weep 

My whole soul out to thee. 

ALFRED TENNYSON 

(1809-1892). 







THE IDLER 



JITH the London hubbub 

Over-tired and pestered, 
I sought out a subbub 

Where I lay sequestered 
Where I lay for three days, 
From Saturday till Monday, 
And (per face aut neface) 
Made the most of Sunday ; 

Burning of a cheeroot 

When I'd had a skinful, 
Squatting on a tree root, 

Doubting if 'twas sinful ; 
As the bells of Kingston 

Made a pretty clangour, 
I (forgiving heathen) 

Heard them not in anger : 

Heard and rather fancied 

Their reverberations, 
As I sat entranced 

With my meditations. 
From my Maker's praises 

Easily I wandered, 
To pull up His daisies, 

As I sat and pondered. 

As I pull'd His daisies 

Into little pieces, 
Much I thought of life 

And how small its ease is : 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Much I blamed the world 

For its worldly vanity, 
As my smoke upcurl'd, 

Type of its inanity. 

By world I meant the Town 

Mayfair, and its high doings ; 
Or rather my own set, 

Its chatterings and cooings : 
So I view'd the strife 

And the sport of London, 
Doubting if its life 

Were overdone or undone. 

Be it slow or rapid, 

If it wakes or slumbers, 
Anyhow it's vapid 

Moonshine from cucumbers. 
Man is useless too, 

Be he saint or satyr ; 
Nothing's new or true, 

And it doesn't matter. 

May not I and Jeames 

Be compared together, 
I in inking reams, 

He in blacking leather ? 
Snob and swell are peers ; 

Snuffer, chewer, whiffer 
In a hundred years 

Wherein shall we differ ? 

Counting on to-morrow's 

" Oirish." Whither tendeth 
He who simply borrows, 

He who simpler lendeth ; 
If we give or take, 

Where remains the profit ? 
Sold or wide awake, 

All will go to Tophet. 

To Tophet shady club 

Where no one need propose ye, 
Where Hamlet hints " the rub " 

Is not select or cosy. 




110 



A LONDON GARLAND 

In that mixed vulgar place, 

It doesn't matter who pays, 
There's no more " Bouillabaise " 

And no more Pet its soupers. 

Why then seek to vie 

With Solomons or Sidneys ? 
Why care for Strasbourg pie, 

For punch or devilled kidneys ? 
Why write " Yellow Plush " ? 

Why should we not wear it ? 
Wherefore should we blush ? 

Rather grin and bear it. 

These uprooted daisies 

Speak of useless trouble, 
Cheroots that burn like blazes 

Show that life's a bubble. 
Thus musing on our lot, 

A fogeyfied old sinner, 
I'm glad to say I got 

An appetite for dinner. 

ANONYMOUS. 






SUMMER IN HYDE PARK 

(GLIMPSES) 




WE pass 

UT of the path and take the grass. 
The grass had still the green of May, 
And still the unblacken'd elms were gay ; 
The kine were resting in the shade, 
The flies a summer-murmur made. 

Bright was the morn and south the air ; 

The soft couch 'd cattle were as fair 

As those which pastured by the sea, 

That old-world morn, in Sicily, 

When on the beach the Cyclops lay, 

And Galatea from the bay 

Mock'd her poor love-lorn giant's lay. 

Still we walked on, in thoughtful mood, 

And now upon the bridge we stood. 

Full of sweet breathings was the air, 

Of sudden stirs and pauses fair. 

Down o'er the stately Bridge the breeze 

Came rustling from the garden-trees 

And on the sparkling waters play'd ; 

Light-plashing waves an answer made, 

And mimic boats their haven near'd. 

Beyond, the Abbey-towers appear'd 

By mist and chimneys unconfined, 

Free to the sweep of light and wind ; 

While through their earth-moor'd nave below 

Another breath of wind doth blow, 



121 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Sound as of wandering breeze but sound 
In laws by human artists bound. 

Onward we moved, and reached the Ride 

Where gaily flows the human tide. 

Afar, in rest the cattle lay ; 

We heard, afar, faint music play ; 

But agitated, brisk, and near, 

Men, with their stream of life, were here. 

Some hang upon the rails, and some 

On foot behind them go and come. 

This through the Ride upon his steed 

Goes slowly by, and this at speed. 

The young, the happy, and the fair, 

The old, the sad, the worn, were there ; 

Some vacant, and some musing went, 

And some in talk and merriment. 

Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells ! 

And now and then, perhaps, there swells 

A sigh, a tear but in the throng 

All changes fast, and hies along. 

Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground ? 

And to what goal, what ending, bound ? 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 
(1822-1888). 




A COVENT GARDEN PASTORAL 



OUNG Colin must quit the fair meadows of Kent 
On a trip to Great Britain's gay capital bent; 
Brief leisure is Colin's of Daphne to dream, 
As he pilots his waggon and whips up his team. 
For the lord of young Colin hath acres to farm 
'Tis a trade that is not without merit or charm ; 
And he makes it his pride, by all possible means, 
To supply the big City with carrots and greens. 

The team and the waggon progress through the night 

(Until eastward are traces of dawn's ruddy light). 

See, they traverse the Thames, and they traverse the Strand, 

And the lamps of the Market at last are at hand. 

Then Colin repairs to a tavern hard by 

For the journey was lonesome, and Colin is dry. 

And he thinks, while he drinks of his never-mind-what, 

O'er the memories dear to that classical spot. 

"Ah, shades of the wealthy the gay the renowned 
Yet again do ye hover this precinct around ; 
Yet again with emotion your worshipper thrills, 
While he watches ye crowding to Button's and Will's. 
Our Congreve and Wycherley, Dryden and Pope, 
Never more in the flesh to behold can we hope ; 
Still their spirits are here, 'mid the mart's busy din- 
Waiter ! Talking of spirits a little more gin! 

''Not a step from the corner was Garrick's abode- 
Kitty Clive had a residence over the road ; 
Here Churchill has rhymed on his dark second floor, 
And the gallants have knocked at Peg Woffington's door. 

123 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Harry Fielding's papa, the much-dreaded Sir John, 
Was the Midas of Bow Street, a little way on. 
What ghosts reappear 'mid the mart's busy hum ! 
Waiter ! Keep'st thou the fluid called Pine-apple rum ? 

" Yon churchyard can boast of remarkable bones, 
Though yon church be unworthy of Inigo Jones ; 
And yon pile at the corner called Evans's tiow 
Echoed once the grand accents of Siddons, I trow. 
To the deathless departed again let me drink. 
Waiter! Fill me my goblet once more to the brink. 
This libation the last one I'll solemnly pour : 
Then return to take charge of that waggon and four !" 

HENRY S. LEIGH, 







THE BELLS OF SAINT MARTIN'S 

(Written in Sickness) 



|YING as close a captive here 

As Damiens on his bed of steel, 
Restless I turn and lend an ear 

To ev'ry fast-revolving wheel. 
My spirit would be all unmann'd 
In silent or suburban gloom ; 
But in the gay and giddy Strand 

My Cockney soul hath elbow-room. 

I cannot walk ; I cannot stir- 
Save painfully from side to side. 

My fate, should any fire occur, 

Simply consists in getting fried. 

I dream by day, and watch by night 
The dancing shadows on the wall. 

My couch, though not an Eden quite, 
Is not unpleasant, after all. 

On Friday nights at eight o'clock 

Begins my merriest of times : 
My cradled slumberings to rock 

Ring out Saint Martin's merry chimes. 
My head may throb, my bones may ache : 

But when those happy bells begin 
I murmur (only half awake), 

" Peace to the soul of Nelly Gwynne !" 

The ringers there, across the way, 

Who bid the cheering metal speak, 

Receive, as portion of their pay, 
A leg of mutton once a week. 
125 




126 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Poor Mistress Eleanor, good soul, 

Bequeathed this banquet in her will. 

(Although a sinner on the whole, 

With all her faults I love her still.) 

I greet with joy (as many must) 

The merry, merry bells of Yule ; 
And never was averse, I trust, 

From any others as a rule. 
But none will ever match the mirth 

My favoured belfry's clangour yields. 
Of all the chimes on all the earth 

Give me Saint Martin's in the Fields ! 



HENRY S. LEIGH, 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 




N our Museum galleries 
To-day I lingered o'er the prize 
Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes,- 
Her Art for ever in fresh wise 
From hour to hour rejoicing me. 

Sighing I turned at last to win 

Once more the London dirt and din ; 

And as I made the swing door spin 

And issued, they were hoisting in 

A winged beast from Nineveh. 

A human face the creature wore, 
And hoofs behind and hoofs before, 
And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er. 
'Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaur, 
.A dead disbowelled mystery : 
The mummy ofa^buried faith 
Stark from the charnel without scathe, 
Its wings stood for the light to bathe, 
Such fossil cerements as might swathe 
The very corpse -of Nineveh. 

The print of its first rush-wrapping 
Round it ere it dried, still ribbed the thing. 
What song did the brown maidens sing, 
From purple mouths alternating, 
When that was woven languidly ? 
What vows, what rites, what prayers preferr'd, 
What songs has the strange image heard ? 
In what blind vigil stood interr'd 
For ages, till an English word 
Broke silence first at Nineveh ? 

128 




129 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Oh when upon each sculptured court, 
Where even the wind might not resort, 
O'er which Time passed, of like import 
With the wild Arab boys at sport, 
A living face looked in to see : 
Oh seemed it not the spell once broke 
As though the carven warriors woke, 
As though the shaft the string forsook, 
The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, 
And there was life in Nineveh ? 

On London stones our sun anew 
The beast's recovered shadow threw. 
(No shade that plague of darkness knew, 
No light, no shade, while older grew 
By ages the old earth and sea.) 
Lo thou ! could all thy priests have shown 
Such proof to make thy godhead known ? 
From their dead Past thou liv'st alone ; 
And still thy shadow is thine own, 
Even as of yore in Nineveh. 

That day whereof we keep record, 

When near thy city-gates the Lord 

Sheltered His Jonah with a gourd, 

This sun (I said), here present, pour'd 

Even thus this shadow that I see. 

This shadow has been shed the same 

From sun and moon, from lamps which came 

For prayer, from fifteen days of flame, 

The last while smouldered to a name 

Sardanapalus' Nineveh. 

Within thy shadow, haply, once 

Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons 

Smote him between the altar-stones : 

Or pale Semiramis "her zones 

Of gold, her incense brought to thee, 

In love for grace, in war for aid : . . . 

Ay, and who else ? . . . till 'neath thy shade 

Within his trenches newly made 

Last year the Christian knelt and pray'd 

Not to thy strength in Nineveh. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Now, thou poor god, within this hall 
Where the blank windows blind the wall 
From pedestal to pedestal, 
The kind of light shall on thee fall 
Which London takes the day to be : 
While school-foundations in the act 
Of holiday, three files compact, 
Shall learn to view thee as a fact 
Connected with that zealous tract : 
" Rome, Babylon and Nineveh." 

Deemed they of this, those worshippers, 
When, in some mythic chain of verse 
Which man shall not again rehearse, 
The faces of thy ministers 
Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy ? 
Greece, Egypt, Rome, did any god 
Before whose feet men knelt unshod 
Deem that in this unblest abode 
Another scarce more unknown god 
Should house with him from Nineveh ? 

Ah ! in what quarries lay the stone 

From which this pillared pile has grown, 

Unto man's need how long unknown, 

Since those thy temples, court and cone, 

Rose far in desert history ? 

Ah ! what is here that does not lie 

All strange to thine awakened eye ? 

Ah ! what is here can testify 

(Save that dumb presence of the sky) 

Unto thy day and Nineveh ? 

Why, of those mummies in the room 
Above, there might indeed have come 
One out of Egypt to thy home, 
An alien. Nay, but were not some 
Of these thine own " antiquity " ? 
And now, they and their gods and thou 
All relics here together, now 
Whose profit ? whether bull or cow, 
Isis or Ibis, who or how, 
Whether of Thebes or Nineveh ? 



A LONDON GARLAND 

The consecrated metals found, 
And ivory tablets, underground, 
Winged teraphim and creatures crown'd, 
When air and daylight filled the mound, 
Fell into dust immediately. 
And even as these, the images 
Of awe and worship, even as these, 
So, smitten with the sun's increase, 
Her glory mouldered and did cease 
From immemorial Nineveh. 

The day her builders made their halt, 
Those cities of the lake of salt 
Stood firmly 'stablished without fault, 
Made proud with pillars of basalt, 
With sardonyx and porphyry. 
The day that Jonah bore abroad 
To Nineveh the voice of God, 
A brackish lake lay in his road, 
Where erst Pride fixed her sure abode, 
As then in Royal Nineveh. 

The day when he, Pride's lord and Man's, 
Showed all the kingdoms at a glance 
To Him before whose countenance 
The years recede, the years advance, 
And said, Fall down and worship me : 
'Mid all the pomp beneath that look, 
Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke, 
Where to the wind the Salt Pools shook, 
And in those tracts, of life forsook, 
That knew thee not, O Nineveh ! 

Delicate harlot ! On thy throne 
Thou with a world beneath thee prone 
In state for ages sat'st alone ; 
And needs were years and lustres flown 
Ere strength of man could vanquish thee : 
Whom even thy victor foes must bring, 
Still royal, among maids that sing 
As with doves' voices, laboring 
Upon their breasts, unto the King, 
A kingly conquest, Nineveh ! 



A LONDON GARLAND 

. . . Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway 

Had waxed ; and like the human play 

Of scorn that smiling spreads away, 

The sunshine shivered off the day : 

The callous wind, it seemed to me, 

Swept up the shadow from the ground : 

And pale as whom the Fates astound, 

The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd : 

Within I knew the cry lay bound 

Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. 

And as I turned, my sense half shut 

Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut 

Go past as marshalled to the strut 

Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. 

It seemed in one same pageantry 

They followed forms which had been erst ; 

To pass, till on my sight should burst 

That future of the best or worst 

When some may question which was first, 

Of London or of Nineveh. 

For as that Bull-god once did stand 
And watched the burial-clouds of sand, 
Till these at last without a hand 
Rose o'er his eyes, another land, 
And blinded him with Destiny : 
So may he stand again ; till now, 
In ships of unknown sail and prow, 
Some tribe of the Australian plough 
Bear him afar, a relic now 
Of London, not of Nineveh ! 

Or it may chance indeed that when 
Man's age is hoary among men, 
His centuries threescore and ten, 
His furthest childhood shall seem then 
More clear than later times may be : 
Who, finding in this desert place 
This form, shall hold us for some race 
That walked not in Christ's lowly ways, 
But bowed its pride and vowed its praise 
Unto the God of Nineveh. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

The smile rose first, anon drew nigh 

The thought : . . . Those heavy wings spread high, 

So sure of flight, which do not fly ; 

That set gaze never on the sky ; 

Those scriptured flanks it cannot see ; 

Its crown, a brow-contracting load ; 

Its planted feet which trust the sod : . . . 

(So grew the image as I trod :) 

O Nineveh, was this thy God, 

Thine also, mighty Nineveh ? 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 
(1828-1882). 




ST. JAMES'S STREET 



|T. JAMES'S STREET, of classic fame, 

For Fashion still is seen there : 
St. James's Street? I know the name, 

I almost think I've been there ! 
Why, that's where Sacharissa sigh'd 
When Waller read his ditty ; 
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, 
And Alvanley was witty. 

A famous Street ! To yonder Park 

Young Churchill stole in class-time ; 
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, 

And then recall the past time. 
The plats at White's, the play at Crock j, 

The bumpers to Miss Gunning ; 
The bonhomie of Charley Fox, 

And Selwyn's ghastly funning. 

The dear old Street of clubs and cribs^ 

As north and south it stretches, 
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs, 

And Gillray's fiercer sketches ; 
The quaint old dress, the grand old style, 

The mots, the racy stories ; 
The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile 

The hate of Whigs and Tories. 

At dusk, when I am strolling there, 
Dim forms will rise around me, 

Lepel flits past me in her chair, 

And Congreve's airs astound me ! 



A LONDON GARLAND 

And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young Sprite, 

Look'd kindly when I met her ; 
I shook my head, perhaps, but quite 

Forgot to quite forget her. 

The Street is still a lively tomb 

For rich, and gay, and clever ; 
The crops of dandies bud and bloom, 

And die as fast as ever. 
Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes, 

And slang that's rather scaring; 
It can't approach its prototypes 

In taste, or tone, or bearing. 

In Brummel's day of buckle shoes, 
Lawn cravats, and roll collars, 

They'd fight, and woo, and bet and lose 
Like gentlemen and scholars : 

I'm glad young men should go the pace, 
I half forgive Old Rapid; 

These louts disgrace their name and race- 
So vicious and so vapid! 

Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed, 

Will then be quite forgotten, 
And all we much revere will speed 

From ripe to worse than rotten : 
Let grass then sprout between yon stones, 

And owls then roost at Boodle's, 
For Echo will hurl back the tones 

Of screaming Yankee Doodles. 

I love the haunts of old Cockaigne, 

Where wit and wealth were squander'd ; 
The halls that tell of hoop and train, 

Where grace and rank have wander'd ; 
Those halls where ladies fair and leal 

First ventured to adore me ! 
Something of that old love I feel 

For this old Street before me. 

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 
(1821-1895). 




^/VAfu4x\ - ^x' 



137 












PICCADILLY 



Her eyes and her hair 

Are superb; 
She stands in despair 

On the kerb, 
^uick, stranger, advance 

To her aid : 
She's across , with a glance 

Toti re repaid. 
She" 1 * fair, and you 1 re tall, 

Fal-la-la! 
What will come of it all? 

Chi lo sa! 
CUPID ON THE CROSSING. 




ICCADILLY! Shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze, 
The whirring of wheels and the murmur of trees ; 
By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly, 
Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly. 




139 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming, 
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming, 
And beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly 
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly ! 

Bright days when a stroll is my afternoon wont, 
And I meet all the people I do know, or don't, 
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie 
No wonder, young Pilgrim, you like Piccadilly ! 

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter, 
She smiles on her Poet, whose heart's in a canter ! 
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, 
He envies them both, he's an ass, Piccadilly ! 

Now were I such a bride, with a slave at my feet, 
I would choose me a house in my favourite street ; 
Yes or no I would carry my point, willy-nilly : 
If " no," pick a quarrel ; if " yes," Piccadilly ! 

From Primrose balcony, long ages ago, 
" Old Q." sat at gaze, who now passes below? 
A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day; 
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay ; 

Never darling of fortune more manfully trod, 
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod, 
Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly- 
Old P. or old Q., "I must quit Piccadilly"? 

Life is chequer'd ; a patchwork of smiles and of frowns ; 

We value its ups, let us muse on its downs ; 

There's a side that is bright ; it will then turn us t'other ; 

One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another. 

These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly, 

Let us try one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly. 

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. 



SUNDAY AT HAMPSTEAD 

(An Idle Idyll by a very humble member of the great and noble London mob) 



I 




HIS is the Heath of Hampstead, 
There is the dome of Saint Paul's ; 
Beneath, on the serried house-tops, 
A chequered lustre falls : 



And the mighty city of London, 
Under the clouds and the light, 
Seems a low wet beach, half shingle, 
With a few sharp rocks upright. 

Here will we sit, my darling, 

And dream an hour away : 

The donkeys are hurried and worried, 

But we are not donkeys to-day : 

Through all the weary week, dear, 
We toil in the murk down there, 
Tied to a desk and a counter, 
A patient stupid pair ! 

But on Sunday we slip our tether, 
And away from the smoke and the smirch ; 
Too grateful to God for His Sabbath 
To shut its hours in a church. 

Away to the green, green country, 
Under the open sky ; 

Where the earth's sweet breath is incense 
And the lark sings psalms on high. 



1 A 7 



A LONDON GARLAND 

On Sunday we're Lord and Lady, 
With ten times the love and glee 
Of those pale and languid rich ones 
Who are always and never free. 



drawl and stare and simper, 
So fine and cold and staid, 
Like exquisite waxwork figures 
That must be kept in the shade ! 

We can laugh out loud when merry, 
We can romp at kiss-in-the-ring, 
We can take our beer at a public, 
We can loll on the grass and sing. . . . 

Would you grieve very much, my darling, 
If all yon low wet shore 
Were drowned by a mighty flood tide, 
And we never toiled there more ? 

Wicked? there is no sin, dear, 
In an idle dreamer's head ; 
He turns the world topsy-turvy 
To prove that his soul's not dead. 

I am sinking, sinking, sinking; 
It is hard to sit upright ! 
Your lap is the softest pillow ! 
Good night, my Love, good night ! 



Ill 

Was it hundreds of years ago, my Love, 

Was it thousands of miles away, 
That two poor creatures we know, my Love, 
Were toiling day by day ; 

Were toiling weary, weary, 
With many myriads more, 
In a City dark and dreary 
On a sullen river's shore ? 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Was it truly a fact or a dream, my Love ? 

I think my brain still reels, 
And my ears still throbbing seem, my Love, 
With the rush and the clang of wheels ; 
Of a vast machinery roaring 
For ever in skyless gloom, 
Where the poor slaves peace imploring, 
Found peace alone in the tomb. 

Was it hundreds of years ago, my Love, 

Was it thousands of miles away ? 
Or was it a dream to show, my Love, 
The rapture of to-day ? 

This day of holy splendour, 
This Sabbath of rich rest 
Wherein to God we render 
All praise by being blest. 

JAMES THOMSON 
(1834-1882). 




A LONDON PLANE-TREE 



KEEN is the plane-tree in the square, 

The other trees are brown ; 
They droop and pine for country air ; 
The plane-tree loves the town. 




Here, from my garret-pane, I mark 
The plane-tree bud and blow, 

Shed her recuperative bark, 

And spread her shade below. 

Among her branches in and out, 

The city breezes play ; 
The dun fog wraps her round about ; 

Above, the smoke curls gray. 

Others the country take for choice, 
And hold the town in scorn ; 

But she has listened to the voice 
On city breezes borne. 

AMY LEVY 
(1862-1889). 




ij.8 



A DREAM 




ORGET six counties overhung with smoke, 
Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, 
Forget the spreading of the hideous town ; 
Think rather of the pack-horse on the down, 
And dream of London, small, and white, and clea 

The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green ; 

Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves 

Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves, 

Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill, 

And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill, 

And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, 

Florence gold-cloth, and Ypres napery, 

And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne ; 

While nigh the throng'd wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen 

Moves over bills of lading. . . . 

WILLIAM MORRIS. 



H9 




LONDON SNOW 



|HEN men were all asleep the snow came flying, 
In large white flakes falling on the city brown, 
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, 
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town ; 
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing ; 
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down : 

Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing ; 
Hiding difference, making unevenness even, 
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. 

All night it fell, and when full inches seven 
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, 
Its clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven ; 

And all awoke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness 
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare : 
The eye marvelled marvelled at the dazzling whiteness ; 

The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air ; 
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, 
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. 

Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, 
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze 
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snow-balling ; 

Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees ; 
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, 
" O look at the trees ! " they cried, " O look at the trees ! " 

With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, 
Following along the white deserted way, 
A country company long dispersed asunder : 

When now already the sun, in pale display 
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below 
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. 

For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow ; 
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, 

150 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go : 

But even for them awhile no cares encumber 
Their minds diverted ; the daily word unspoken, 
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber 
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they h 
broken. 

ROBERT BRIDGES. 




A THAMES SUBURB 



[E left the city when the summer day 
Had verged already on its hot decline, 
And charmed Indolence in languor lay 
In her gay gardens, 'neath her towers divine : 
" Farewell," we said, " dear city of youth and dream ! ' 
And in our boat we stepped and took the stream. 

All through that idle afternoon we strayed 

Upon our proposed travel well begun, 

As loitering by the woodland's dreamy shade, 

Past shallow islets floating in the sun, 

Or searching down the banks for rarer flowers 

We lingered out the pleasurable hours. 

Till when that loveliest came, which mowers home 
Turns from their longest labour, as we steered 
Along a straitened channel flecked with foam, 
We lost our landscape -wide, and slowly neared 
An ancient bridge, that like a blind wall lay 
Low on its buried vaults to block the way. 

Then soon the narrow tunnels broader showed, 
Where with its arches three it sucked the mass 
Of water, that in swirl thereunder flowed, 
Or stood piled at the piers waiting to pass ; 
And pulling for the middle span, we drew 
The tender blades aboard and floated through. 

But past the bridge what change we found below ! 
The stream, that all day long had laughed and played 

152 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Betwixt the happy shires, ran dark and slow, 
And with its easy flood no murmur made : 
And weeds spread on its surface, and about 
The stagnant margin reared their stout heads out. 

Upon the left high elms, with giant wood 

Skirting the water-meadows, interwove 

Their slumbrous crowns, overshadowing where they stood 

The floor and heavy pillars of the grove : 

And in the shade, through reeds and sedges dank, 

A footpath led along the moated bank. 

Across, all down the right, an old brick wall, 
Above and o'er the channel, red did lean ; 
Here buttressed up, and bulging there to fall, 
Tufted with grass and plants and lichen green ; 
And crumbling to the flood, which at its base 
Slid gently nor disturbed its mirrored face. 

Sheer on the wall the houses rose, their backs 
All windowless, neglected and awry, 
With tottering coins, and crooked chimney stacks ; 
And here and there an unused door, set high 
Above the fragments of its mouldering stair, 
With rail and broken step led out on air. 

Beyond, deserted wharfs and vacant sheds, 
With empty boats and barges moored along, 
And rafts half sunken, fringed with weedy shreds, 
And sodden beams, once soaked to season strong. 
No sight of man, nor sight of life, no stroke, 
No voice the somnolence and silence broke. 

Then I who rowed leant on my oar, whose drip 
Fell without sparkle, and I rowed no more ; 
And he that steered moved neither hand nor lip, 
But turned his wondering eye from shore to shore ; 
And our trim boat let her swift motion die, 
Between the dim reflections floating by. 

ROBERT BRIDGES. 




AN AUTUMN IDYLL 

Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song." SPENSER 

LAWRENCE FRANK J A ^ K 

LAWRENCE 

ERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses, 
Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. 
Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; 
Here let us sit. We landed here before. 

FRANK 

Jack's undecided. Say^formosepuer, 

Bent in a dream above the " water wan," 
Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, 

There by the pollards, where you see the swan ? 

JACK 

Hist ! That's a pike. Look nose against the river 

Gaunt as a wolf, the sly old privateer ! 
Enter a gudgeon. Snap, a gulp, a shiver ; 

Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. 

FRANK (in the grass] 

Jove, what a day ! Black Care upon the crupper 
Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; 

Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, 

Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun ! 



A LONDON GARLAND 

LAWRENCE 

Sing to us then. Damoetas in a choker, 

Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. 

FRANK 

Sing you again. So musical a croaker 

Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. 

JACK 

Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is 
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. 

Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; 

Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. 

FRANK 

Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper, 

Say, by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing ? 

LAWRENCE 

Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, 

Let him declare the prize he has to bring. 

JACK 

Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted 
First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ; 

This, my Beloved, marvellously mounted, 
Amber and foam, a miracle of art. 

LAWRENCE 

Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, 
Grant me a soft alliterative song! 

FRANK 

Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers, 
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. 

LAWRENCE 

Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, 

Not where the brook traditionally " purls,"- 

No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, 
Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

FRANK 

Not in the waste of column and of coping, 

Not in the sham and stucco of a square, 

No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping, 
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair. 

LAWRENCE 

Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited 
Back from the brows, imperially curled ; 

Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid, 

Holding the roof that covers in a world. 

FRANK 

Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging 
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; 

Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, 
Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. 

LAWRENCE 

Best is the song with music interwoven ; 

Mine's a musician, musical at heart, 
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, 

Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. 

FRANK 

Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, 
Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, 

Not too divine to toss you up a salad, 

Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. 

LAWRENCE 

Ah, when the thick night flares with drooping torches, 
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, 

Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, 
Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. 

FRANK 

Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, 
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat, 

Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, 
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

LAWRENCE 

All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her 
Round with so delicate divinity, that men, 

Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, 
Bend to the goddess, manifest again. 

FRANK 

None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her, 
Cynics to boot. I know the children run, 

Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, 

Save that she brings the summer and the sun. 

LAWRENCE 

Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, 

Crowned with a sweet, continual control, 

Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely 
E'en to her own nobility of soul. 

FRANK 

Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, 
Fearless in praising, faltering in blame ; 

Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, 

Jack's sister Florence, now you know her name. 

LAWRENCE 

"Jack's sister Florence !" Never, Francis, never. 

Jack, do you hear ? Why, it was she I meant. 
She like the country ! Ah, she's far too clever. 

FRANK 
There you are wrong. I knew her down in Kent, 

LAWRENCE 

You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. 
Sorry to differ, Jack the word's with you. 

FRANK 

How is it, Umpire ? Though the motto's threadbare, 
" Goelum, non animum" is, I take it, true. 




159 



A LONDON GARLAND 

JACK 

" Souvent femme varie," as a rule is truer ; 

Flattered, I'm sure, but both of you romance. 
Happy to further suit of either wooer, 

Merely observing you haven't got a chance. 

LAWRENCE 
Yes. But the Pipe 

FRANK 

The Pipe is what we care for, 

JACK 

Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, 
Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, 
Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. 

AUSTIN DOBSON, 




THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL 



DRINK of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Che 
At noon I dream on the settle ; at night I cannot sleep ; 
For my love, my love it groweth ; I waste me all the day ; 
And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say. 



The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree, 
He beateth to his little wing ; he chirketh lustily ; 
But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail ; 
I wot that I shall die of Love an I die not of Ale. 



Her lips are like the muscadel ; her brows are black as ink ; 
Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink ; 
But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out " Tee-Hee ! 
Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me ? " 



" Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin ! Why be thine eyes so small ? 
Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall ? 
Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot ? 
Go to. Thou art no man (she saith), thou art a Pottlepot ! " 




162 



A LONDON GARLAND 

" No man," i' faith. " No man ! " she saith. And " Pottlepot " there 
" Thou sleepest like our dog all day ; thou drink'st as fishes do." 
I would that I were Tibb the dog ; he wags at her his tail ; 
Or would that I were fish, perdy, and all the sea were Ale ! 

So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe ; 

All day I dream in the sunlight ; I dream and eke I weep. 

But little lore of loving can any flagon teach, 

For when my tongue is loosed most, then most I lose my speech. 

AUSTIN DOBSOI 




TOMMY 




WENT into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, 
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here." 
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, 
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I : 
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ; 
But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to 

play; 

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, 
O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to 



it's " Thank 
play. 



164 







165 



A LONDON GARLAND 

mt into a theatre as sober as could be, 

y gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me ; 

y sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, 

when it comes to fightin', Lord ! they'll shove me in the stalls ! 

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait 

outside " ; 

But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide, 
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, 
O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide. 

makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep 

icaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap ; 

hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit 

r e times better business than paradin' in full kit. 

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, 'ow's 

yer soul ? " 

But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll, 
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, 
O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll. 

aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, 

single men in barricks, most remarkable like you ; 

if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, 

r, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints ; 

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, fall be'ind," 
But it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the 

wind, 

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, 
O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the 
wind. 

talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all : 
1 wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. . 
t mess about the cook-room slops, but -prove it to our face 
Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. 

For it's Tommy this,- an' Tommy that, an' " Chuck him out, the 
brute ! " 

But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot ; 

An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please ; 

An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool you bet that Tommy sees ! 

RUDYARD KIPLING. 




UNDER THE SPEAKER'S GALLERY 



all the comedy of human things 
What is more mirthful than for those, who sit 
Far from the great world's vain imaginings, 
To mingle in its war of words and wit, 
A listener here, when Greek meets Greek, Fox P 

At question time in the Queen's Parliament ? 

'Tis the arena of old Rome. Here meet 

More than mere Dacians on mere slaughter bent. 

Yonder and close to Mr. Speaker's chair, 

Enfolding all things in a net of words, 

Stands our first gymnast. Let the rest beware. 

The Tory Stafford, with voice sweet as bird's, 

Shall answer him anon, or bolder borne 

And if luck favours, from the nether herds 

A voice of patriot wrath shall rise in scorn, 

Or even young Cassius blow his windy horn. 

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT. 



THE LONDON SEASON 




STILL love London in the month of May, 
By an old habit, spite of dust and din. 
I love the fair adulterous world, whose way 
Is by the pleasant banks of Serpentine. 
I love the worshippers at fashion's shrine, 
The flowers, the incense, and the pageantry 
Of generations which still ask a sign 
Of that dear god, whose votary am I. 
I love the " greetings in the market-place," 
The jargon of the clubs. I love to view 
The " gilded youth " who at the window pass, 
For ever smiling smiles for ever new. 
I love these men and women at their task 
Of hunting pleasure. Hope, mysterious too, 
Touches my arm and points, and seems to ask, 
" And you, have you no Juliet in the masque ? " 

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT. 



168 



GOODWOOD 




O the high breezes of the Goodwood Down 
London has fled, and there awhile forgets 
Its weariness of limb on lawns new-mown 
And in green shadows all its wars and frets. 
Thither we too will bring our calumets 

In sign of peace restored o'er fashion slain, 

Weaning our souls from folly with small bets 

Of gloves and crowns with laughing ringwomen. 

The sport is fair, luck fair, and Nature's face 

Fairest of all. We neither make nor mar 

A fortune here. Yet we were rich with less 

Than this week's pleasure conquered from the year. 

I would not for a million not have seen 

Fred Archer finish upon Guinevere. 

Hark ! They are off again, a half mile spin, 

Four of the dozen backed and bound to win. 

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT, 



169 




170 



A DAY AT HAMPTON COURT 




T is our custom, once in every year, 

Mine and two others', when the chestnut trees 
Are white at Bushey, Ascot being near, 
To drive to Hampton Court, and there, at ease 
In that most fair of English palaces, 

Spend a long summer's day. What better cheer 

Than the old " Greyhound's," seek it where you please ? 

And where a royal garden statelier ? 

The morning goes in tennis, a four set, 

With George the marker. 'Tis a game for Gods, 

Full of return and volley at the net, 

And laughter and mirth-making episodes 

Not wholly classic. But the afternoon 

Finds us punt-fishing idly with our rods, 

Nodding and half in dreams, till all too soon 

Darkness and dinner drive us back to town. 

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT, 



T 7 r 




172 




IN AN OLD CITY CHURCH 



NE dull, foggy day in December, 
When biting and bleak was the air, 
I once lost my way, I remember, 
And paused in a quaint City square. 
Though lacking all splendour or gladnes 
The flavour of good long ago 
Clung close to the place in its sadness, 
And grave-yard half covered with snow ; 
While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare, 
Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square ! 

The railings were rusty and rimy, 

The church looked so mouldy and grim ; 

The houses seemed haunted and grimy, 

The windows were gruesome and dim. 

The iron gate scrooped on its hinges, 

The clock struck a querulous chime, 

As though it were feeling some twinges 

'Twas almost forgotten by Time. 

But I opened the door, and the picture was fair, 

In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square ! 

A fair little lass, holly-laden 

With eyes of cerulean blue 

Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maiden 

Twine ivy with laurel and yew ; 

How busy the deft taper fingers ! 

What taste and what art they display ! 

How lovingly each of them lingers, 

Adjusting a leaf or a spray ! 

I close the door softly, I've no business there, 

And drift out in the fog of the grim City square. 

J. ASHBY-STERR 




174- 



IN THE RAIN 




AIN in the glimmering street- 
Murmurous, rhythmical beat ; 
Shadows that flicker and fly ; 
Blue of wet road, of wet sky, 
(Gray in the depths and the heights) ; 

Orange of numberless lights, 

Shapes fleeting on, going by. 

Figures, fantastical, grim- 
Figures, prosaical, tame, 
Each with chameleon-stain, 
Dun in the crepuscle dim, 
Red in the nimbus of flame- 
Glance through the veil of the rain. 

Rain in the measureless street, 
Vistas of orange and blue ; 
Music of echoing feet, 
Pausing and pacing anew. 

Rain and the clamour of wheels, 
Splendour, and shadow, and sound ; 
Coloured confusion that reels 
Lost in the twilight around. 



When I lie hid from the light, 
Stark, with the turf overhead, 
Still, on a rainy Spring night, 
I shall come back from the dead. 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Turn then and look for me here 
Stealing the shadows along ; 
Look for me I shall be near, 
Deep in the heart of the throng : 

Here, where the current runs rife, 
Careless, and doleful, and gay, 
Moving, and motley, and strong, 
Good in its sport, in its strife. 



Ah, might I be might I stay- 
Only for ever and aye, 
Living and looking on life ! 

ROSAMOND MARRIOTT- WATSON, 




2 A 



177 





A RIDDLE OF THE THAMES 



windows that from Westminster 
Look southward to the Lollard's Tower, 
She sat, my lovely friend. A blur 
Of gilded mist, ('twas morn's first hour),- 
Made vague the world : and in the gleam 
Shivered the half-awakened stream. 




Through tinted vapour looming large, 
Ambiguous shapes obscurely rode. 
She gazed where many a laden barge 
Like some dim-moving saurian showed. 
And 'midst them, lo ! two swans appeared, 
And proudly up the river steered. 

178 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Two stately swans ! What did they there ? 
Whence came they ? Whither would they go ? 
Think of them, things so faultless fair, 
'Mid the black shipping down below ! 
On through the rose and gold they passed, 
And melted in the morn at last. 



Ah, can it be, that they had come 

Where Thames in sullied glory flows, 

Fugitive rebels, tired of some 

Secluded lake's ornate repose, 

Eager to taste the life that pours 

Its muddier wave 'twixt mightier shores ? 

We ne'er shall know : our wonderment 
No barren certitude shall mar. 
They left behind them, as they went, 
A dream than knowledge ampler far ; 
And from our world they sailed away 
Into some visionary day. 

WILLIAM WATSON, 




IN FOUNTAIN COURT 



HE fountain murmuring of sleep, 

A drowsy tune ; 
The flickering green of leaves that keep 

The light of June ; 

Peace, through a slumbering afternoon, 
The peace of June. 




A waiting ghost, in the blue sky 

The white curved moon ; 
June, hushed and breathless, waits, and I 

Wait too, with June ; 
Come, through the lingering afternoon 

Soon, love, come soon. 

ARTHUR SYMONS. 

180 



A LOAFER 



HANG about the streets all day, 
At night I hang about ; 
I sleep a little when I may, 
But rise betimes the morning's scout ; 
For through the year I always hear 
Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout. 




My clothes are worn to threads and loops ; 
My skin shows here and there ; 
About my face like seaweed droops 
My tangled beard, my tangled hair ; 
From cavernous and shaggy brows 
My stony eyes untroubled stare. 

I move from eastern wretchedness 
Through Fleet Street and the Strand ; 
And as the pleasant people press 
I touch them softly with my hand, 
Perhaps to know that still I go 
Alive about a living land. 



For, far in front the clouds are riven ; 

I hear the ghostly cry, 

As if a still voice fell from heaven 

To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie 

In sepulchres no tempest stirs 

And only eyeless things pass by. 

181 




182 



A LONDON GARLAND 

In Piccadilly spirits pass : 
Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow ! 
Oh, strength and comeliness ! Alas, 
The lustrous health is earth I know 
From shrinking eyes that recognise 
No brother in my rags and woe. 

I know no handicraft, no art, 

But I have conquered fate ; 

For I have chosen the better part, 

And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate. 

With placid breath on pain and death, 

My certain alms, alone I wait. 

And daily, nightly comes the call, 
The pale unechoing note, 
The faint " Aha ! " sent from the wall 
Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat 
Of human breed or seraph's seed, 
A phantom voice that cries by rote. 

JOHN DAVIDSON 





BALLADE OF CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE 



E giant shades of Ra and Turn, 
Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian, 
If murmurs of our planet come 
To exiles in the precincts wan 
Where, fetish or Olympian, 
To help or harm no more ye list, 
Look down, if look ye may, and scan 
This monument in London mist ! 




Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb 
That once were read of him that ran 
When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum 
Wild music of the Bull began ; 
When through the chanting priestly clan 
Walk'd Ramses, and the high sun kiss'd 
This stone, with blessing scored and ban 
This monument in London mist. 



The stone endures though gods be numb ; 
Though human effort, plot, and plan 
Be sifted, drifted, like the sum 
Of sands in wastes Arabian. 
184 



A LONDON GARLAND 

What king may deem him more than man, 
What priest says Faith can Time resist 
While this endures to mark their span 
This monument in London mist ? 



ENVOY 

Prince, the stone's shade on your divan 
Falls ; it is longer than ye wist : 
It preaches, as Time's gnomon can, 
This monument in London mist ! 



ANDREW LANG, 





i86 




BALLADE OF SUMMER 



|HEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap, 
Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, 
When midnight dances are murdering sleep, 
Then comes in the sweet o' the year ! 
And far from Fleet Street, far from here, 
The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, 
And moonlit nights they are soft and clear, 
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand ! 

When clamour that doves in the lindens keep 
Mingles with musical plash of the weir, 
Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep, 
Then comes in the sweet^ o' the year ! 
And better a crust and a beaker of beer, 
With rose-hung hedges on either hand, 
Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer, 
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand ! 

When big trout late in the twilight leap, 
When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, 
When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap, 
Then comes in the sweet o' the year ! 
And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer, 
Where kine knee-deep in the water stand, 
On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere, 
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand ! 

ENVOY 

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, 
Then comes in the sweet o' the year ! 
And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand, 
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand ! 

ANDREW I 

187 




i88 




AT A DISTANCE 



EAR, you are farther off from me 

Than my gaunt garret from the sky, 
Or parching desert from the sea, 

Or sound and laughter from a sigh. 

I know you breathe our civic air, 

And sometimes down some dreary street 

I see you pass divinely fair, 

And look for roses at your feet. 

And sometimes through St. James's trees 

You drive, a goddess of the light ; 
And I can see you, when I please, 

Behind the level lamps at night : 

Where from some corner I can stare 

Across that line of yellow fire, 
And feed upon your face and hair 

The pain of exquisite desire. 

What does it matter? *Who will care, 

Another hundred years or so, 
That I wrote verses to your hair, 

Whose tresses then in grass may grow ? 

JUSTIN HUNTLY M'CARTI 



180 




190 




IQI 



THE LITTLE DANCERS 

(By permission from the Pall Mall Gazette] 




[ONELY, save for a few faint stars, the sky 
Dreams ; and lonely below the little street 
Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. 
Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat ; 
And all is dark ; save where come flooding the rays 
From a tavern window : there, to the brisk measure 
Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, 
Two children, all alone and no one by, 
Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze 
Of motion lightly threaded with nimble feet, 
Dance sedately : face to face they gaze, 
Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure. 

W. L. BINYON 



192 




194 




NOCTURN 



NDER a stagnant sky, 

Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom, 

The River, jaded and forlorn, 

Welters and wanders wearily wretchedly on 

Yet in and out among the ribs 
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles 
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls 
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories, 
Lingers to babble to a broken tune 
(Once,- O the unvoiced music of my heart ! ) 
So melancholy a soliloquy, 
It sounds as it might tell 
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain, 
The terror of Time and Change and Death, 
That wastes this floating transitory world. 

What of the incantation 

That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore 

To take and wear the night 

Like a material majesty ? 

That touched the shafts of wavering fire 

About this miserable welter and wash 

(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams ! ) 

Into long, shining signals from the panes 

Of an enchanted pleasure-house 

Where life and light might live life lost in life 

For ever and evermore ? 

O Death ! O Change ! O Time ! 
Without you, O the insufferable eyes 
Of these poor Might-have-beens, 
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays ! 

W. E. HENLEY. 




196 




198 




IN WESTMINSTER 



|T. MARGARET'S bells, 

Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles, 

Sing in the storied air 

All rosy and golden as with memories 

Of woods at even-song, and sands and seas 
Disconsolate for that the night is nigh. 
O the low, lingering lights ! The large last gleam 
(Hark ! how the brazen choristers cry and call !) 
Touching these solemn ancientries, and there, 
The silent River ranging tide-mark high, 
The gray-faced Hospital, 

With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream ! 
The Sabbath peace is in the slumb'rous trees, 
And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky 
(Hark ! how those plangent comforters call and cry !) 
Falls, as in August plots late rose-leaves fall. 
The sober Sabbath stir- 
Leisurely voices, desultory feet ! 
Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street, 
Where in their summer frocks the girls go by, 
And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer, 
Just as they did a hundred years ago, 
Just as a hundred years to come they will : 
When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low, 
And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fill 
Nor any sunset fade serene and slow ; 
But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die. 

W. E. HENLJ 




200 




FOG 



UT of the poisonous East, 
Over a continent of blight, 
Like a maleficent Influence released 
From the most squalid cellarage of hell, 
The Wind-Fiend, the abominable 
The hangman wind that tortures temper and light- 
Comes slouching, sullen and obscene, 
Hard on the skirts of the embittered night : 
And in a cloud unclean 
Of excremental humours, roused to strife 
By the operation of some ruinous change 
Wherever his evil mandate run and range 
Into a dire intensity of life, 
A craftsman at his bench, he settles down 
To the grim job of throttling London Town. 

And, by a jealous lightlessness beset 

That might have oppressed the dragons of old-time 

Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime, 

A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams, 

Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet, 

The afflicted city, prone from mark to mark 

In shameful occultation, seems 

A nightmare labyrinthine, dim and drifting, 

With wavering gulfs and antic heights and shifting 

Rent in the stuff of a material dark 

Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale, 

Shows like the leper's living blotch of bale : 

Uncoiling monstrous into street on street 



A LONDON GARLAND 

Paven with perils, teeming with mischance, 

Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread, 

Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet 

Somewhither in the hideousness ahead ; 

Working through wicked airs and deadly dews 

That make the laden robber grin askance 

At the good places in his black romance, 

And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose 

Go pinched and pined to bed 

Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way 

From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey. 

Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows, 

His green garlands and windy eyots forgot, 

The old Father-River flows, 

His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom, 

As he came oozing from the Pit, and bore, 

Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides, 

Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot 

In the squalor of the universal shore : 

His voices sounding through the gruesome air 

As from the ferry where the Boat of Doom 

With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides : 

The while his children, the brave ships, 

No more adventurous and fair, 

Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides, 

But infamously enchanted, 

Huddle together in the foul eclipse, 

Or feel their course by inches desperately, 

As through a tangle of alleys murder-haunted, 

From sinister reach to reach out out to sea. 

And Death the while- 
Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile, 
Death in his threadbare working trim- 
Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland, 
And with expert, inevitable hand 
Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung, 
Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart : 
Thus signifying unto old and young, 
However hard of mouth or wild of whim, 
'Tis time 'tis time by his ancient watch to part 
With books and women and talk and drink and art 
And you go humbly after him 



A LONDON GARLAND 

To a mean suburban lodging : on the way 

To what or where 

Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say : 

And you how should you care 

So long as, unreclaimed of hell, 

The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable, 

Thus vicious and thus patient sits him down 

To the black job of burking London Town ? 

W. E. HENLI 



THE 




END 



Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh. 



Henley, William Ernest 
London garland 



?N 

6110 

P7L5 



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